Private Tragedy
by ASiriusAuthor
Summary: Only the divas ride off into the sunset. Everyone else gets average results from average struggles, and they usually don't even receive the credit, either. And it's not that they don't deserve the spotlight every so often... It's just that not everyone can be James Tiberius Kirk.
1. Chapter 1

"Sir? Sir. You're awake. That's good. That's very good."

I slowly turned my head towards the voice. I was awake... but I couldn't see who it was. All I could see was a blur of blue and black and white. I blinked, attempting to clear the mist from my eyes. It didn't seem to want to release me.

"Do you remember anything?" Another voice. "Anything at all?"

Honestly, I had a vague feeling that I ought to be glad to be alive... Still, something about this whole situation put me off. In fact, I actually felt... _off_. "No," I answered curtly.

 _LIAR_ , a voice in my head shouted at me. _You remember_ EVERYTHING _. Admit it._ That put me off, too. _No_ , I retorted mentally. _They don't need to know any more than they already do, and they know plenty_.

More calmly, I said, "I don't remember anything... I was... on a shuttle, I know that much," I reaffirmed the statement to the blurs in the room, and suddenly felt an unreasonable stab of guilt.

I could actually _lie_ without excruciating pain. That wretched little Centaurian Slug wasn't latched onto my brainstem and laying my head out like a map for the taking. It felt so good... and yet... so... not good as well.

"Well, that's at least a start. Do you remember who you are?" That same voice- the one belonging to the black blur.

I paused. _Christopher Richard Pike. Born in Mojave, Earth. Captain of the USS Enterprise_... except that... I didn't _feel_ like Captain Christopher Pike. I felt... different. As if nothing were ever going to be the same. Knowing my luck, that was probably true.

The black blur repeated the question. I knew the correct answer, even if that was a lie as well.

"Pike; Christopher. Captain of the USS _Enterprise_."

Saying those words... I knew they just weren't true anymore. They were outdated information. Non-applicable. Obsolete. Because I felt so hollow... so... lonesome. Even if I were surrounded by people, which I quickly deduced by their concerned voices were friends, I felt so alone... so much like a shell of myself, as if I could never bring a mirror to my face again without unbearable shame.

The blue blur spoke again. A name flashed in my mind: McCoy. "Do you— I have something for any pain you have, if you need it."

"No," I rasped, suddenly realizing that my throat was parched, and again disregarding my conscience, which told me that I was lying to my friends again—my legs, (not to mention the rest of my body) hurt like hell. Still, there was no need to concern them with something that I could bear. "But... I can't see—everything's blurry."

"Oh. Hmm." A beat. "That may be a reaction to the medication to get the toxin out of your system."

I blinked, mostly in disbelief, and partially in liking the silence.

The black blur—must be Kirk—spoke again. "You've been in heavy detoxification for the last couple of days, so that isn't a surprise. McCoy's been trying to get all of the poisons out of your system... we... uh... we were pretty worried about you. You were screaming a lot, and you looked pretty miserable."

I grit my teeth and bit back a cutting reply. Of course I was miserable. I hated what had happened, and yet... a near-irresistible urge was there to get down on my knees and beg them to put the bug back in. That was a strange request, but...I suppose that it takes a bit of explanation...

 ** _Some time before..._**

"Christopher."

Pike hated that voice. It meant pain and humiliation. It meant shame and failure. He cursed Nero internally with gritted teeth. Then he remembered what would happen when his pulse spiked.

He tried to calm himself, but before he could dispel his thoughts, intense pain lit his body alight. He screamed, and before he could stop it, his mouth roared his exact thoughts. The series of nasty expletives reverberated around the room.

Suddenly, a cool, refreshing feeling flowed over him, beginning with the back of his neck, and spreading to the rest of his body. He felt so... nice. For a moment, he was so happy, he forgot about the whole situation.

It felt like everything in the whole universe was set right. He knew that was obviously untrue, but the feeling sure felt good while it lasted.

Nero simply gave a crazed laugh. "Well, glad to know you'll speak your mind. What do you really think of me?"

This time, Pike didn't even try to stop his words as they tumbled out in monotone. "I hate you. I always will... You've taken so much from me and I want _nothing_ more than for you to die."

Pike bit his lip and a tear slowly traced down his cheek. He knew full well that he, in essence, had just intentionally shot up on narcotics. The shame crashed back down on him—he was better than that. He was!... Then the toxin washed into his bloodstream, and he suddenly didn't care anymore.

It was absolutely wonderful. He hadn't felt so good in ages. It felt like he was in a nice warm shower after a well-completed mission. For him... that was basically the best feeling in the whole universe. He grinned broadly and laughed gleefully in drug-induced stupor. That bliss didn't last _nearly_ long enough.

"Well, I didn't come down here to watch you drug yourself out of your mind. I have questions."

Pike went silent. There was always something more. Something else he had to say to avoid agonizing pain. Some other secret that should be kept, and wasn't, because he wasn't strong enough to resist. But then, the chemicals and toxins currently coursing though his veins made him look like an addict, so... well... enough said. He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.

"When you first came here, you seemed so... resigned to your fate. Defiant, perhaps, but still resigned. If you had not, you would never have come here aboard my ship." Nero circled the table menacingly. "You had accepted it. You were ready to die, yes?"

An interesting aspect of Centaurian Slugs—they don't actually force their victims to tell the truth. Pike had heard all sorts of rumors about the creatures, whether from his father or other space adventurers who had lost men to the vile things. Now, however, he could honestly say from (albeit _unwanted_ ) personal experience that they didn't force you to tell the truth... they just made you _desperately_ want to surrender the information.

The toxin they release functions as a highly addictive depressant. It is automatically released into their host's system, and the more relaxed the host is, the more the toxin will be released into the bloodstream.

As a parasite, this is so that, eventually, the host (Victim.) will overdose on the toxin, and the slug can happily devour its victim from the inside in peace. However, due to the very nature of that issue, and considering the current situation, that did not constitute what Christopher Pike wanted to think about _in the slightest_.

Used as a torture tactic, when the host (Victim.) tells a lie or withholds information, various biological functions (for example, heart rate and endorphins) signal the Centaurian Slug through the brainstem to stop the release of the depressant. Detox began immediately and was absolutely excruciating.

Pike didn't know how long detoxification actually lasted—then, of course, he really didn't want to try.

"Yes," he mumbled. "I was ready to die."

"Why were you ready to die? You weren't facing the destruction of your world. What was it?" Nero put his hands on the table and leaned in imposingly. "I want to know, Christopher."

Pike gritted his teeth as the flow of chemicals slowed and he felt detox beginning to set in. "Don't try to be nice to me. It never does anything." He grit his teeth, and steeled his jaw for the onslaught ahead.

"Christopher, you know it will only get worse as you hold back. The toxin _always_ works." Nero was so relaxed about the entire situation, and Pike found himself being even more resentful to Nero's lack of concern as the pain intensified.

" _NO!_ I am _not_ going to... to _—_ " His body spasmed involuntarily as he drifted in and out of delirium.

...

A hutch wasn't enough to keep out the rain. Blankets were not enough to keep out the cold. The smell of mold and rot hung heavy in the air, accentuated with the residual smell of fire and chemical smoke.

Twelve-year-old Christopher shivered in his chair and cradled his burned face as he looked out at the muddy beach and the ghostly, blackened land mass beyond. Just two days ago, fires had raged across the fields, and it was only by coming here that anyone had survived. As soon as the fire had hit the slick, dark water of the river, it had ceased its tireless hounding of the colonists. It still burned there angrily, seemingly hoping that the easterly winds driving it would carry it to the island in the middle of the river, so that it could continue its arbitrary judgment of the colonists' wrongs.

Panic of whether sparks and embers would ignite the dry forested island remained for only a little while. Not half an hour after the first few colonists escaped over the river, a cold, heavy rain had descended by the wings of a westerly wind upon the valley— the first substantial rain in four months. The rain was equally as filthy as the river as it cleansed the heavy, smoke filled air. The fire had hissed and flickered in defiance as the Mercies of the Sender of the rain put it out.

It came a late for those who had been injured, or lost their lives in the fire, Christopher reminded himself bitterly. It was too little, too late.

The rain put out the wildfire that had ravaged what the adults had said was most of the planet, but it didn't stop. It pounded the remaining survivors incessantly, soaking and ruining supplies. They had no food. They had hardly any medical supplies. The best they could do was build lean-tos and makeshift shelters out of tarps to shield the wounded from the elements.

The tarps could only do so much. They didn't keep out the sudden cold that had arrived with the storm, because the shelters weren't closed, but they couldn't keep out all the rain, either, because the stupid tarps _leaked_.

He heard footsteps of hurried boots outside, and the crash of a felled tree as it splashed into the mud. The mud was a strange combination of dirt and silt, so much so that it nearly acted like quicksand. He heard angered shouts of desperation as the tree settled into the mud with groans of suction and pops of unsettled air pockets. The trees from the thickly forested island would have been used to build more permanent shelters... but with the rain, and the impossibility of the building surface, that was likely quite a long time in coming.

The boy gritted his teeth against the discomfort as he shifted, and the bandages stretched against the burns on his chest.. He hoped that Starfleet would arrive soon to take them way. Take the colonists away from this terrible, terrible place. This place where he had striven... and he had failed. His failure.

...

It was all his fault. It was his fault, and his failure that led to George Kirk's death—the death of his best friend.

Christopher Pike and George Kirk were almost inseparable. Practically joined at the hip, most people said. That may have been because they were roommates, but more likely the fact that, where one was, you were likely to find the other as well. They did everything together—and they were made a good team.

They were young and mischievous and brash, George Kirk was impulsive but harmless (mostly) and generally considered 'sweet' by most of his associates. Christopher Pike was the quiet, friendly, and up-and-coming lawyer who could get himself and his best friend out of detention or expulsion with a lot of reason and a little personal charm. It stayed that way for all four years of their Academy training.

The young cadets were practically brothers. It wasn't as if they didn't have families of their own... but still. Chris was the Best Man at George's wedding. He took the one picture of George and Winona that made it into the 'Most Memorable Moments of Our Lives' classification for both of them, and would still be in Chris's home in Mojave in an old wood box more than twenty five years later...

In the end, Chris only wished George could have returned the favor. George never met Vina, or Chris's parents.

For that matter, George never met his own son.

Instead, he was killed during a battle between the _Kelvin_ , and a massive ship of unknown origin. He sacrificed himself to allow his son and wife to live, as well as several hundred other people. Still... Chris blamed himself for his friend's death.

At that time, they were both officers aspiring for Captaincy. Christopher Pike was an undergraduate Commander on the _S.S._ _Exitorn_ , and George was a Lieutenant Commander—one close to promotion, at that. It was at Chris's suggestion that George accepted the post on the _Kelvin_ , because, the commander had said, an assignment to the brand-new ship was a promotion just waiting to happen.

George Kirk died before that dream came to fruition.

 _If wishes were fishes, there'd be no room for the water_ , Chris had reminded himself as he continually punched the wall of his quarters in rage and grief at learning of his friend's death that he had unwittingly helped to orchestrate. In truth, he succeeded at nothing other than breaking his hand in a compound fracture.

It didn't hurt nearly as much as he expected, but it had been more than worth it. The physical pain distracted him from the emotional pain (but you would never hear him say that).

The blood that spread across his fingers and smeared on the wall was the pain and anger, in his mind, displayed for him to see and to scrub away when the time came.

Christopher Pike was transferred back to a Terran posting while he finished getting his PhD... How fitting it was for his dissertation to be on the _S.S. Kelvin_.

After all, it was his second failure.

...

There was nothing left of the fleet. Just... nothing. Wreckage. Mere wreckage that threatened to destroy them as they struggled through the debris field.

He knew that it was unlikely that anyone had survived.

Chris had been so close to being among them...

It was because of Kirk—who wasn't even supposed to be here—that they even knew to expect danger.

It was only for the forgetfulness of an inexperienced helmsman that they weren't in the fray itself.

He saw the wreckage—he knew many of the people who had been on those ships, cadets included in that number. He knew that there was little chance of survival for them outright, and even less chance for rescue.

Another... failure. Failure to meet his fate—the dues he owed for the people who had lost their lives due to his direct or indirect involvement.

...

Nero shook his head as a primal screech tore itself out of Pike's throat. "You know... We'll never get anywhere this way. Just... just give in. It would be so much easier, wouldn't it be? Why not just tell me?"

Pike completely lost higher thought. All that he could think about was that something was hurting him, and he wanted it to stop. He knew how to stop it. Survival. Pain and agony and...

He suddenly knew that it was just too much. He wasn't willing to experience _this_ for his own personal matters. "I've always been a private man. I... don't like to... share my feelings much," he gasped.

Nero's brow furrowed slightly.

Pike gave a blissful sigh as the wonderful numbing effect took hold of his body again. He slowly continued as his eyes unfocused and he relaxed into the table.

"I've always felt like a failure. Even when I was just a kid... My parents on Elysium. I watched as they burned to death in the Fire that nearly killed me... I was always afraid of fire after that... And I've failed a lot of other people, too."

He paused as a new rush of the narcotic chemicals entered his bloodstream. "The S.S. _Kelvin_. I watched it get destroyed in George Kirk's last stand against you... And here... Vulcan. Shiloh. All those cadets." A tear squeezed out of his eye and ran down his face.

Nero tipped his head in curiosity.

Pike swallowed a rising lump in this throat. "I've always felt guilty…. This makes it so much more pointed. Why should I have survived, when so many others lost their lives? I deserved to die, too—be a name on a placard. "

"So you resigned yourself to your fate at my hands, as you believed it should be?"

Pike shook his head. He knew he shouldn't be saying these things. His job was to win the mind games. But he didn't care anymore—he was so desperate to have reward instead of punishment that he didn't care. The words just tumbled out uncontrollably. "I've failed so many times. My failures always seem to bring death and pain...But now I'm face to face with you. I've a chance to right wrongs. Undo mistakes, and hopefully save a few lives in the process."

Nero gave a slight smirk of mild amusement. "So you want to be a hero. You want to be a dead hero."

Pike shook his head. "No, no. Not a hero. Heroes... are for old comic books and poorly written holo-dramas... I want to rid myself of the guilt. The failure. If I die, so be it. It should have been that way, anyways. If I live... I still know I've paid my dues." Pike smiled in his drug-induced euphoria, but only briefly.

His face turned grim again. "Seeing you... Now I know the face of the man responsible for taking so many lives. If my name is added to the list, I now have at least the comfort of knowing what kind of man is the one who... who destroyed the U.S.S. _Kelvin_ , those ships full of cadets, Vulcan, and caused so much pain to so many."

"You're ranting."

"I honestly don't care!" Pike gritted his teeth and sat up against the restraints, coming within a few inches of Nero's face. His pulse spiked, and his body began reacting to the slowing flow of toxins. "Knowing who you are, and meeting you, I get to hate you all the more," he snarled. "And I shall carry that hatred _to the day I die_."

The pain was quite intense by this time, but he managed to get his spiel in before he fell back down. The narcotics crashed back into his system.

Nero gave a slight smile and circled once around the table as Pike struggled to keep him in his field of vision. "It must pain you to expose yourself so. It must feel so... so _naked_ for you to share everything."

"It does." He closed his eyes and shook his head slowly as the slug gave him a very pointed incentive to speak. "I don't want to tell you. I've never felt so... utterly humiliated in my life."

"Well," Nero smiled in glee. "Know that it wasn't by your doing. I remember how you shook in rage before the Centaurian Slug's toxin took hold of you." He tipped his head. "And yet—you still gave in." His voice turned sickly sweet. "You told me. You cracked."

Pike blinked in shock at what the Romulan was implying. The narcotics slowed as his rage built.

Nero leaned in, less than an inch from his ear. "Chalk it up to another one of your _failures_ ," he sneered self-righteously.

Christopher screamed, whether from rage or from agony he knew not.


	2. Chapter 2

I looked up at my friends. "You have no idea," I snarled. "I _was_ miserable!" I felt my body tremble as I felt tears in my clouded eyes. No tears. Anything... anything but tears.

"We know, because we saw." Kirk placed his hand on my shoulder in a comforting gesture.

" _You have_ _ **NO**_ _idea_ ," I roared. I fought the tears welling in my eyes as I swallowed the lump that had risen in my throat.

The blur that was McCoy spoke again. "Sir, I'm going to give you a hypospray to see if we can clear your vision."

I gritted my teeth, and before McCoy could insert the hypospray, I flailed my arms, hitting him in what was presumably the gut, as he exhaled explosively.

I stood quickly, sending the blood rushing from my head, and making myself incredibly dizzy. I grabbed a small grey stick off of the tray next to the table as I pushed it over. I heard the clatter of metal. I stood on the cold floor in bare feet and realized upon looking down that I was clad only in a long white hospital gown, devoid even of a pair of trousers. Agh—even worse.

I leaned heavily on another biobed for the moment, in order to avoid undue strain on my legs (which were already registering an unreasonable amount of pain at the moment). I growled at Kirk and McCoy. They still hadn't moved.

"Captain," Kirk said, voice dangerously low. "Put down the scalpel."

I slowly ran my left thumb along the grey object to find the blade, I felt the blood trickle down my thumb- at the moment, and the blade was pointed outward, towards them. I slowly brought my thumb to my lips and licked the blood away, while still keeping the blade pointed outward. McCoy coughed roughly—probably a result of when I backhanded him.

I stepped away from the biobed, barely maintaining my balance."Just...get- get away from me! Leave me alone, dammit! Let me... let me think." I shook uncontrollably from the cold, and the sudden activity. "I need..." I cursed under my breath. "I need to..." _I need to get high again._ Where did _that_ come from? That wasn't me... at least... not the _me_ I remembered. _Of course_ , my abused head reminded me, _you aren't really_ you _anymore, and anyways you should at least know that much by now_.

I did. Even if I did recover... there was no way that things could ever go back to normal. They may go back to some _semblance_ of normal... but never _normal_. Never again. Not after all this.

...

He never broke the gaze once. Not once. He would make Nero look at him.

The wretched little bug had taken almost an entire hour to burrow out of his larynx and wrap its nasty little claws around his brainstem. The Romulans had closely monitored him for the first half hour or so, when he had choked on the thing three or four times. They had to repair his vocal cords several times throughout the whole process, as the burrowing literally tore his neck apart. They didn't sedate him at all (why should they make it easy?) and he could feel every movement of the creature as it continued to claw through tissue and muscle.

If it sounded painful and absolutely disgusting, well, it was.

He remained steadfast. He never broke the gaze. It was excruciating, and the involuntary tremors and spasms made it hard to keep Nero in his field of vision, but he never broke his stare.

Then—just when he thought it would never end—something unexpected happened. A cool feeling spread out from the area which formerly experienced an incredible amount of strain and agony.

Nero simply smiled.

"What—" Pike rasped, before he decided that he could honestly get used to this. It felt so incredibly comforting, he suddenly felt contented. He slowly relaxed into the table—something he was almost sure he _shouldn't_ do. It felt so good, though—he briefly wondered how on earth this could be forcing information out of him.

Then he found out.

...

I drew my lips in momentarily as Kirk yelled for security. Several red blurs appeared in the room. Great. A shipman was calling security on his berserk captain. The last thing I needed was to be forced to lay on a flat surface and strapped down. Just thinking about it sent the foul taste of dry heaves up into my mouth.

Everyone probably thought that I was crazy. And I probably was. After all, the captain of Starfleet's flagship was a _drug addict_. That was pretty bad, especially by my standards.

...

"Jim, _look_ at him," McCoy whispered harshly. "He's _terrified_ of us." To the security guards, McCoy calmly said, "We appreciate your concern, but this one should be just us."

...

McCoy slowly approached, his hands in front of himself in the 'surrender/harmless' position. I held the scalpel out towards him in attack fashion.

"Captain... _Christopher_."

I brandished the scalpel in front of me, and McCoy stopped cold. I bit back tears as flashbacks flew though my mind. I struggled to maintain my balance as I hissed, "Don't you _dare_ start with me!"

McCoy stopped short, and even through the blurriness I could see he was cursing himself internally.

"Captain... I... I know what they did to you. I saw it. I'm your doctor. I- I know."

My lip quivered and I slowly lowered the scalpel. "You... you saw?"

McCoy seemed to be nodding as he continued to approach. "The emblem. The... other damage. I know. I want to help you."

...

Seriously, though. What was it about him that just attracted the most violent, or disturbing things possible? _All part of your charm_ , his (Relatively? Please?) unstable mind laughed at him.

Pike looked down at his bare chest. One of Nero's cronies had carved the Romulan insignia into it; right above his heart. The offending utensil lay on a tray close to the table, where Pike could easily see it. It hurt— and not just physically, either.

Despite majoring in a separate field at the Academy, he was academically familiar with ancient practices signaling domination; specifically, marking or branding. He grimaced at the dark irony as he realized wasn't just academically acquainted with the subject now.

He looked up to find Nero and several other Romulans filing slowly into the room.

Pike blinked sadly up at them. He... he was tired of having to get asked questions. He was tired of the pain.

Mostly, he was tired of the chemicals that made his brain fuzzy— like it was going to spill out his ears if he so much as moved his head. He groaned unhappily; pleasure could only satisfy him for so long- he needed adrenalin, danger—it was what men like him lived on. He wanted to get back to his... to his family.

He shook his head in an attempt to fully wake up. It didn't quite work out, as needles of pain plunged though his entire body.

The restraints across his chest were removed momentarily— just long enough for them to put his black shirt and yellow uniform shirt back on— before they forced him back down.

"Well, Christopher. How are you?"

Pike groaned. He was so drugged at this point, the conversation barely registered with him.

"So. We've almost arrived at earth. I hope you've... enjoyed your trip."

Pike mumbled an expletive, and fell silent again.

Nero gave a slight smile, and leaned over Pike, turning a bright white light on overhead.

Pike blinked and grimaced as his eyes adjusted. He'd been so used to just sitting in the darkness, the light stung his eyes and made them water.

Pike suddenly felt a syringe plunge into his neck. It was quite shocking, and he briefly strained against the straps before regretting it almost instantly. Spearing pain lit his nerves on fire, and he screamed before crashing back down onto the table.

"I wouldn't do, that, Christopher. You'll feel enough with this." He waved the syringe in the air to prove his point.

Pike began to feel a tingle beginning at the injection site, and it was slowly spreading down his arm. It was all well and fine that it didn't speed his heart rate up or cause him pain, but it felt so incredibly strange. He shifted in place slightly, trying to dispel the feeling out of his arms and legs.

"What? What did you... do to me?" He gasped as the tingling intensified.

Nero smirked. "Steal your pride. The last reminder of your humanity. You will feel the pain that I felt, in full."

Pike's brow furrowed. "I–I don't understand."

Nero tipped his head. "The loss of your spawn— the unborn." He leaned in close (within a few inches) and his voice changed to a high pitched whisper next to Pike's ear. "You will never have children, Christopher. Never... Even if you live, this," he tapped the cylinder of the syringe against Pike's cheek as he stood back up. "This will _always_ remind you."

It took a bit for that little bit of information to sink in. Pike slowly closed his eyes as he realized the depth of the situation.

He opened his eyes, and his worried gaze flickered briefly to his wedding band. Then back up to the ceiling. His eyes closed again, slower this time.

He drew his lips in, before exhaling, and opening his mouth in a silent cry. How much more could Nero possibly take from him, short of his life? Well, with the amount of toxins in his system, he could rest assured that it wouldn't take long.

"So you accept your fate. Your fate at my hands."

Pike's eyes opened to slits. "Nothing more to say."

...

I winced at McCoy's words. He knew... he knew _everything_... Then he took me by surprise.

McCoy grabbed my right arm with blinding speed and twisted it behind my back so that I reflexively dropped the scalpel. I let out a sharp cry as the metal hit the floor with a familiar twinkle. McCoy released my hand and whirled me around.

"So for god's sake, man," he growled harshly into my ear. " _Let me help you or you will face the consequences_!"

I grimaced at his words. Of course I knew that they were true. Maybe I just didn't want to accept them. I was the captain, and captains weren't supposed to let their crew see them bleed. I was supposed to be the steadfast one, and... well... McCoy wasn't having any of my bull. A montage flickered though my mind. Vulcan's destroyed, crater's in the Bay, ship's half-blown up, command's gone to a (clever, but mutinous) cadet, all because the Captain's _officially_ lost all his damned marbles... Great combination.

I looked at McCoy briefly. As I said, he wasn't having any excuses. A bolt of pain shot up my legs all the way to my shoulder blades. In my condition, I realized I was in no place to even be making excuses.

...

Kirk watched Pike practically crumple—he'd never thought that _that_ would happen. McCoy followed the tormented soul to the floor, and simply held him. "Please," he heard Pike gasp. "I don't... no more... It... It's hurt so much. Sedate me, or—"

Kirk heard some semblance of a curse proceed from teeth gritted in pain.

"Just... just let me die."

McCoy hugged the captain tightly and rocked back and forth. "You aren't all the way through the detoxification. You'll make it. But you gotta press on."

...

I began shaking uncontrollably. "Just... please." I grimaced as another wave of pain rolled over me. I felt a cold sweat forming a sheen on my face. "Please," I gasped. "If I don't have the... the..."

"Then you'll recover. You'll live. Those toxins would have killed you if you'd been there any longer. Then you'd have been a half-eaten corpse, not safe and alive and in withdrawals like you are now."

"I would have died—not in agony, though."

McCoy turned my head so that our eyes met. "And what good is that to you? You're a fighter— why would you just give up like that?"

"You saw what they did to me." I averted my eyes as the shame crashed back down on me. "Don't have anything left."

"That's a lie and you know it."

I remained silent. His next words caught my attention.

"You've been through your trial by fire. You've made your atonement, sir."


	3. Chapter 3

There was a lot of commotion. I had suspected I would find that Nero had blown up the earth. What a day. My home destroyed, then dying a horrible death and my corpse devoured by a parasite. _What a wonderful day_ , my mind shouted with unreasonable sarcasm. (It had been doing that a lot lately, though, so I was neither shocked nor disturbed.)

Then I saw flashes of phaser fire, and quickly wondered what was happening. What was truly happening was much more simplistic than I had originally thought. Of course, in my state, there wasn't much of it that was actually processing, anyhow.

I looked upwards to see... Kirk.

No, no. Not Kirk. An illusion cooked up by my desperation. Obviously. One of the first rules of psychology: people see what they want to, so take nothing at face value. But then... he shot Romulan guards, and they were very obviously dead, so...

The spunky blonde immediately began undoing my restraints (which... I had _no_ idea how he figured that out... but, oh well. I wasn't thinking about that. Freedom? Sure I'd ignore the best of critics for that).

I shook my head in an attempt to wake myself up from my euphoric stupor. I needed to be at least coherent for a rescue. Pain shot up and down my body, and pulsated with my heartbeat. I hoped that at least the latter would last a little longer.

"What're you doin' here?"

"Just following orders." Just like him to be so blunt, and yet so reassuring. Of course he was— that's why I recruited him. I saw the makings of a good captain there. Just as long as it wasn't... per say... right now?

I smiled slightly.

Then my attention was drawn to two more Romulan guards (who had basically popped in from out of nowhere) entering the room. I wanted to warn Kirk... but my brain was not having it. No words came out of my mouth—I guess that talking wasn't on the list of things that my mind was particularly capable of arranging on the spot.

Instead of wasting time trying to make words, I grabbed the phaser out of Kirk's holster, and shot the two Romulans behind him.

It was a very regrettable decision, for as soon as I did, the Slug cut off the supply of narcotics completely. Agony flared in almost every nerve of my body; a true testament to how truly and horribly dependent I was upon that particularly nasty cocktail produced by one itty-bitty bug. My hand went slack and the phaser pointed towards the floor, and Kirk took it with a grateful nod of the head.

Kirk lifted me off the slab, and helped me walk away from the horrible scene. I am quite sure he realized that I wasn't in any condition to stand at all. We heard explosions, and Kirk became frantic. Again, I had little understanding of what was going on, but it seemed to be an... interesting situation, to say the least.

He shouted into his communicator, " _Enterprise_ , NOW!"

With a _whoosh_ of the transporter, we were back on the _Enterprise_. I tried to lift my right arm into a position to put compression on the pain in my side... but... well... It didn't really matter. The Centaurian Slug was still punishing me of robbing it of its next meal. Not that I minded the latter part, but, by any standards, that bug had a nasty disposition.

An engineer gave a shout of jubilation. "I've never beamed three targets from two locations to one pad before!"

I saw a man dressed in blue, and quickly realized that it was... McCoy. I swore to myself that I would have a few choice words for the cadet about his bringing Kirk aboard... although, any verbal lashing I had for the young doctor would probably end in praise...

McCoy pulled me away from Kirk, and another person pulled up my other arm, and carried me away. I suddenly realized that Puri was nowhere to be seen... maybe he was busy in the MedBay... although, somehow my instincts told me otherwise.

 ** _Sometime later..._**

"So... that's what we have in mind for treatment. We've never done this before, so we're breaking new ground. Something has to be done, though. We just want to... to get you stable, and see if we can get that Centaurian Slug off your brainstem without any further damage. We can't do it all at once, because we don't want to send you into shock."

It wasn't my intention to give an incredulous snort, but that's what happened. "So, let me get this straight," I slurred, while still staring at the far wall. "You want to string me up in midair to keep me awake... pump me full of meds that will undoubtedly cause me severe pain... with no sedation... for a day and a half while I detox."

I watched McCoy's face turn a bit sheepish as my face exhibited my opinion of the absurdity of his plan. "Then operate on me—sedated but still awake." I looked up at him. My gaze slowly returned passively to the wall.

McCoy shook his head. "If it makes you feel any... better... total treatment will last upwards of seventy-two hours. Only the first half will be spent suspended horizontally... The other half of it will be bed rest."

"That..." I arched my back as another bolt of pain wracked my body. "Is no comfort at all."

McCoy nodded. "I know... but it'll also just be on the _Enterprise_."

I glanced up at him.

McCoy nodded slowly. "Yeah—Scott says that we're going to be stuck out here for... maybe two weeks. We're only on impulse power right now."

I grunted. Then I sighed. I... really had no choice but to obey the doctor; the procedure would have to take place to save my life regardless of whether he had my consent or not.

For a moment, the pain ceased, and the euphoria took hold for one last time. Which only meant that I had made my decision; regrettably _not_ that the pleasure was there to stay.

Finally, after a few moments, I nodded grimly.

Without a word, the attending nurses gently wrapped the soft, synthetic fabric ropes usually used for traction around my wrists and ankles, locking them in with metal clasps. They drew me up on the winches as smoothly as they could, obviously not wanting to cause me any undue pain.

I almost smiled at their concern. Almost.

A hypospray of medication plunged into my shoulder... and thus began the longest two days I had ever been forced to endure.

...

"He's... he's gone insane... or possessed." James Kirk looked over to where Captain Pike was being treated. The captain had gotten a separate, isolated treatment area, not because he was the captain, but because his screaming would have disturbed the other patients. By what Kirk saw, that decision was completely within reason. The man was violently convulsing on the straps that suspended him above the biobed, and although the glass of the treatment room was almost soundproof, Kirk could see just by a glance that he was screaming bloody murder.

"Jim, he's not possessed, and he's not insane," McCoy warned sharply. "He's in _agony_. After forty-eight hours of excruciating pain and sleep deprivation, you'd be delirious, too. Don't deny it."

Kirk blinked. "Yeah. I... I probably would." A beat. "It looks like he's trying to say something, Bones."

"Shocked us- he's reciting poetry, actually. Free form verse, too. Some Shakespeare here and there. Although... well, it obviously means something to him, but the usage doesn't make sense to us. He's in pretty bad shape."

"Can I—can I go see him?"

McCoy shrugged. "Well, he isn't going anywhere. As long as he is actually... cognizant. He lapses out of this every so often. You'll only have a few minutes at most, if you time it right. He should be coming out of this one any time now..."

They watched as Pike gave one last heave on the ropes, and suddenly fell still.

"There he goes. You'd better hurry."

Kirk quickly took the doctor's advice. He slowly walked to the glass, and opened the door, closing it behind him as he entered the small room.

Pike was suddenly resting quietly in his ropes that held him. Then he spoke. " _All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,_ " Pike recited to no one in particular, actually—the ceiling in all likelihood.

"They _have their exits and their entrances_ ," Pike gasped as he shook on the ropes. " _And one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages_." He continued to tremble seemingly uncontrollably.

Kirk began to think that Pike didn't even know he was there, until the man made direct eye contact with him—or at least, the thought so until he saw the captain's eyes.

Tears of blood ran in scarlet streaks down the captain's face. The sclera and iris in each of his eyes were colored a violent crimson, and the fluid was still glistening wet. Red droplets were spread on the man's white hospital t-shirt.

" _For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, turning again toward childish treble, pipes and whistles in his sound_." Kirk shifted in place as Pike seemed to be speaking directly to him.

More droplets of blood flowed out of Pike's eyes as he looked back up at the ceiling." _Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion_." Pike let the words hang in the air a moment. He grit his teeth and closed his eyes tightly before looking back at Kirk, and, with a quiet, near-timid voice, finished his recitation, "Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans... Everything."

Pike lightly bit his lip. "Beautiful, isn't it? Ironic. Shakespeare was good."

Kirk nodded, though he was almost sure that Pike couldn't see him. "Yep. Really good. 'As You Like It', right?"

Pike huffed. "What do you need, son? Before I go out of my head again."

Kirk could read the strain in Pike's voice as plain as day, as if the captain had been pushed to (and well past) the breaking point, but he was still trying to hold on. Failing rather spectacularly, Kirk might add, but still trying.

"I... I just wanted to see you, and to see if there was anything I could do for you?"

Pike bit back a nasty reply with obvious restraint, instead settling for, "Not... much to see. For me, either; everything's all dark... Can you tell me the time?"

"Uh... you've been here in this about eighteen hours."

Pike sighed deeply. "You have to be—" he thrashed a moment on the ropes, and then fell still again. "Kidding me," he panted.

"As much as I want to be kidding you, sir, I'm not. I'm sorry."

Pike nodded soberly. "I know I can't blame you, son. It's not your fault. It's this..." He pointed presumably to the back of his neck.

Kirk shook his head slightly. "I'm still sorry, sir. I wish we could have gotten you out sooner."

Pike gritted his teeth again. "So do I, son," he gasped. "There was no way to avoid it. I... I appreciate you coming back for me, though."

Kirk watched as the older man began to squirm on the ropes that held him up. It soon blew up into what was happening before.

An unnatural screech tore itself out of Pike's throat and split the air in the room.

Kirk looked on in as much pity as was likely possible for human beings as a whole as Pike continued thrashing and screaming. "Sir... I... I'm so sorry."

Pike slowly stilled and held his sightless gaze on Kirk, though said person could tell that it was incredibly straining for the captain to do so.

"Thanks... for coming to see me." He gave an obviously pained smile, and Kirk could tell that he was trying to give a good show. "T's so lonely—nobody else... visits."

Kirk bit back tears, and instead put on a brave smile. "You're welcome, sir." He sat down on the bedside chair, careful to move it out of the range of the patient.

A distant, glazed look came over Pike's eyes, and Kirk could tell that it would be awhile before they had conversation again.

"Please fly me away on wings of steel to the shores of the Acheron," Pike yowled to the ceiling. "And build me a dock, that I may bathe in the pain of the Acheron!"

Kirk tipped his head as the captain continued in a quieter voice. "Cord taut in my hand, to pull me above; I rise from the Acheron." By the time the fourth verse came, Pike was reduced to a whisper. "Until my grasp fails." Another crimson droplet squeezed out of the captain's eye. "I fall so far to the depths of the Acheron."

Kirk blinked. That particular poem wasn't in anything that he knew of—Pike must have composed that himself. "Sir?" Kirk tried to edge within Pike's field of vision, though he soon cursed himself silently for the effort—the man couldn't even see him if he wanted to.

Kirk decided to continue talking to him—it might make the situation more bearable for the both of them.

"Sir, that poem... I like it. Was it from anywhere?"

Kirk couldn't see much, because the Captain was still convulsing on the ropes, but he thought he saw the man shake his head.

"I didn't think so."

Kirk almost thought he saw a smile pass briefly over Pike's face before more blood streamed down the older man's face.

That's when he realized it—his initial presumption wasn't right, and neither was McCoy's. Pike wasn't insane or delirious: he was fighting. Every so often, he would gain his bearings back and be able to reason and say things that meant something to others. The rest of the time, he was struggling to maintain that same sanity.

As they were both captains (acting captain, for the former), Kirk understood that Pike had those self-imposed obligations to put a brave face on for the crew, and now he physically was unable to do that. Kirk bit his lip as he realized that it would feel like he had failed his crew, and cause the captain to inflict even more undue frustration on himself.

Kirk slowly stood and walked to stand next to Pike, though he was quite sure that Pike neither saw him, nor was at the point of full awareness.

He slowly brought his hand up and grasped the older man's hand in reassurance. Pike instantly stopped thrashing (albeit that he was still so tense that he shook), and looked up sightlessly at Kirk.

"We're here for you, sir. All of us. You're safe now, and you don't have to shoulder all the burden- we'll help you."

...

Those were perhaps the best words I'd heard in days. There were people who cared about me, and had my back. It was the most hopeful thing I'd heard in a long time, too.

Everything always seemed to be death and destruction and... Pain. A lot of pain.

I gritted my teeth as I was plunged headfirst into another wave of agony. Kirk had no idea how hard it was just to sit still.

It was so incredibly hard to resurface from that... Every single time the intermittently released medication took effect to increase my heart rate and blood pressure, the Slug would immediately cut off the supply of the toxins it had briefly been giving me.

By the time I did, Kirk was gone—how I knew that? I didn't, really. I just figured that since he was a talker, and I couldn't hear him anymore, that he'd left.

I had no idea how much time had passed since Kirk had left. I may have gone unconscious in the interim; I had absolutely no idea. All I knew was that it still hurt. Of course it did. It never stopped hurting.

Suddenly, I heard someone walked into the room. "Captain? Captain, are you awake?" McCoy. Probably just here for the hourly torture chamber session... It wasn't really a torture chamber- McCoy was just trying to do his job. It sure felt like a torture chamber, though.

"Of course I'm awake," I gasped. "Just tired. Feel like I can barely move. Still hurts a lot."

"Well, that's perfectly alright for the moment... you're more than three quarters of the way through. You only have seven more hours to go."

"Eight hours." I cursed under my breath.

"We've been monitoring you closely for the past few hours. We worried that sleeping would affect you, but... there were no... lasting effects." McCoy's voice got further away. "If we can keep your heart rate going up, you'll probably be able to continue resting."

"How... how long did I sleep?"

McCoy seemingly turned back to him. "You stilled about... oh... two or three hours ago. Before that..."

I blinked, though I still couldn't see anything. "Pandemonium."

"You could say that." A hypospray plunged into my arm. "Now. You can fall asleep, and we'll continue to monitor you, and wake you up if we see any dangerous signs."

"If I can fall asleep."

McCoy's voice was almost directly above me, and I felt him readjusting the straps on my wrists. "Yeah."

I looked downward to where I would normally see the rest of my body, and slowly shook my head. My chest felt like it was going to explode. Then the pain started anew, and my muscles seized up in response. I gritted my teeth to hold back the scream that wanted so much to escape.

"Sir, are you in pain?"

" _Yes_ ," I hissed. "I am in pain, and I have been for the past _seventy seven hours_! But... but my chest—" I was cut off by a low groan emanating from my throat.

McCoy drew in, and, by the placement of his hand, examined my eyes. "The discomfort in your chest could be a side effect of the stimulant... I still can't explain the loss of vision, though. Probably the... the medication as well. This could help." Another hypospray. I was tired of those blasted things.

...

Kirk watched as McCoy exited the treatment room.

Pike had taken up the hourly routine of agonized screaming and thrashing again, but Kirk comforted himself in knowing that the good captain had at least gotten a few hours of reprieve, albeit that he had simply passed out from pain and exhaustion.

"Well, that seemed to go well."

"I guess," McCoy mumbled as he washed the mess of blood and lachrymal fluid off of his hands in a basin of water.

Kirk walked slowly up behind McCoy. "You still didn't tell him."

McCoy had finished cleaning the sticky red substance off of his fingers, and Kirk handed him a fluffy white hand towel. "Tell him what? That he's got a high chance of being paralyzed during the operation? That we've had to feed him though hyposprays because his digestive system suffered mass trauma, and barely that because half his veins have collapsed? That his eyes may very well never work again? Why should I tell him that before he absolutely has to know?"

"It would have been nice," Kirk said as he took the towel, and tossed it into the biohazard bin nervously as he noticed a few spots of crimson red against the white. "You want to crush his spirits when he recovers."

McCoy shook his head, and walked to his desk, taking up a PADD. "I don't want to crush anyone's spirits," he said defensively. "On the other hand, I still think that there might still be a chance to reverse the damage to the blood vessels... And anyways, he doesn't need to know it any sooner than necessary."

"I think it's necessary."

" _DAMMIT, JIM, I DON'T_!"

Chalk it up to coincidence in Kirk's mind, but Commander Spock chose just that moment to walk into the MedBay. His brow rose at the sight of McCoy yelling at Kirk, but other than that, there was no comment. Instead, the Vulcan strode up to the doctor and acting captain.

"Gentlemen," Spock nodded to the both of them. "I trust that Captain Pike is recovering well?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'well', Spock." McCoy practically spat. "If by 'well' you mean... he _lives_ , then yeah, he's as alive as he's been in days. If by 'well' you mean actually recovering with little discomfort," McCoy tipped his head toward the glass, where Pike had taken up yet another round of struggling against the ropes, mouth wide open in a silent (from their frame of reference) scream. "That's up for the jury."

"No jury, Bones," Jim hissed. "He's miserable, and we can't do anything about it—remind me why we couldn't just give him the medication outright, and let him _recover quickly_?"

McCoy rolled his eyes, and retorted sharply, "Jim, he was practically dead when you found him. His heart rate was dangerously low. He was overdosing on a foreign chemical. He was nearly in shock. His veins were collapsed; he was barely in condition to even _be rescued_." He tapped the PADD and bit his lip lightly before continuing. "If we HAD done that... two minutes in and it would have sent him into shock, and you would have had one decorated, though thoroughly _dead_ war hero on your hands."

Kirk and Spock watched as McCoy proceeded to check on supplies of medicine.

"He was already halfway into shock when you brought him back," McCoy half-hissed. "We had to stabilize him while you jokers were up on the bridge trying to get us sucked into a black hole."

Kirk made a quick motion, and for a moment, it looked as if the acting captain were going to strangle his best friend. Spock was faster, much to McCoy's benefit, and held Kirk at bay as the latter screamed a variety of insults of a rather inappropriate nature.

"You don't care about him!" Kirk screamed as he finally wrestled out of Spock's grip and tackled McCoy to the floor, proceeding to beat the living daylights out of the CMO.

"Of course I do!" McCoy shouted between the blows.

Spock tried to perform a neck-pinch against the acting Captain, but his efforts were frustrated when McCoy turned the tables briefly, and the two men went rolling across the floor.

Kirk shouted obscenities as McCoy got a few blows of his own in, before the former regained the upper hand.

Kirk pinned McCoy to the floor, and was currently smashing the doctor's wrists into the floor. McCoy screeched in return. "He's my Captain, too, and a good friend!"

"Then why let him suffer like that!? Least you can do is sedate him!"

Spock suddenly realized in a brief moment panic that Kirk had somehow acquired some sort of sharp metal utensil, as the edge glinted in the light as the blonde held it in his hand.

"I can't do that without endangering his life further." McCoy finally just relaxed into the floor, and Kirk suddenly realized what he was doing—he had attacked a fellow officer, and one of his best friends. He looked at the object in his hands. One wrong move and he could very easily have killed his Chief Medical Officer.

Kirk quickly stood, and helped McCoy up as well. "I—I'm sorry, Bones. I shouldn't have... exploded like that."

McCoy gave a slight smile and licked the blood from his lip "T's fine. No one else needs to know," he turned to the Vulcan. "Right, Mister Spock?"

Spock raised one eyebrow (of course he did), and simply turned to walk out the door, with an offhand, "Things are functioning at the current optimum. We should be back to earth within two weeks."

Kirk watched as McCoy tended to his own wounds with a few drops of ointment. "I... I really am sorry. I was out of my head."

McCoy gave a slight smile. "Happens to the best of us. No permanent damage." He looked up at Kirk. "And I meant what I said. I'm doing everything I can to make this easier for him, but I've got to be sure I'm doing more help than harm."

Kirk glanced into the room where Pike was, and smiled. "Look. He's asleep..."

 ** _To be Continued..._**


	4. Chapter 4

Why couldn't happy things last longer than unhappy things?

I had drifted in and out of exhausted sleep and sheer agony over the last nine hours. Of course I couldn't just stay without pain, and why? What was all of it for?

Eventually I had just made up my mind that it honestly wasn't worth all of this. This cycle was only a taste of what was to come. That was pretty much what broke the camel's back for me.

"Sir, I'm going to ask you to take a few deep breaths."

I blinked "Uh... OK."

I was now lying on the biobed in the opposite orientation, with my face downward instead of up towards the ceiling. My head was actually resting in some special contraption that would keep my head and body completely stationary as the good doctor extracted the Centaurian Slug.

Albeit that it was unpleasant, and could very well end in my paralysis if anything went wrong, I took my happiness in knowing that at least the bug wasn't going out the way it came in.

I took deep breaths as I was instructed. In and out. In and out. In and—

...

A piercing screech and a series of nasty expletives cut the heavy air.

"I'm sorry sir." McCoy lifted the hypospray from the ugly, discolored bulge on the back of Pike's neck. "I had to get the anesthetic in somehow. Surprise can take some of the bite out of it."

Pike continued to give him some choice words, before he managed a, " _At least WARN me next time_!"

"Don't worry, sir. I think that's the only one you'll feel. The others shouldn't hurt, since this one is done." McCoy lightly tapped the bulge. "Can you feel that?"

...

I blinked again. Now that the shot was done... It didn't seem like I could feel anything in my whole torso, much less in the back of my neck. "Feel what?"

I heard another hypospray release its payload, but I quickly realized that there was no pain.

"Perfect," McCoy chirped a little too happily. "It's working."

I closed my eyes as I felt... an extraordinarily strange feeling in my neck. I could literally feel the scalpel in my skin... but it didn't hurt.

I heard McCoy hiss under his breath.

"What's up, doc?"

"This... I've never seen anything like this. Ever."

I drew my lips in briefly before speaking again. "Is it bad?"

"Do you want optimistic, or reality?"

I spontaneously realized that I couldn't nod. "Reality. I can take it."

"There's these... wiry strands. Lots of them. They're netted around and through the brainstem... This will take a lot longer than I thought."

My features fell immediately. "Of course. Whatever you need, doctor."

It took a very long time. McCoy struggled to remove the Slug without accidentally damaging anything else important... at one point, when I was absolutely sure that I would go out of my mind, I heard another hiss from a hypospray, and promptly fell asleep.

 ** _Back in the present..._**

"You've been through your trial by fire. You've made your atonement, sir."

I bit my lip lightly. It was just excuses...Excuses made to justify the pain, and the failure...

Another spasm shot through my legs, and I gave a low groan.

"Here," McCoy stood up, and helped me stand. "Let's get you back to bed."

I lifted my fingers to the place on the back of my head and neck where the slug had been. A large portion of the hair that had been there was sheared away, and the only thing left was the ridge of a suture, and a small crater, that stung a little at the touch.

The big issue was my legs. Pressure would cause the nerves to light up in pain, although the rest of my body had settled down slightly.

McCoy helped me into the bed, and I felt another hypospray release its payload in my shoulder.

"That might clear your vision. And, thanks to a little finagling, there's an analgesic in there as well. Should at least make your stay more bearable. We'll monitor it." McCoy walked back to his desk, which was only a little ways away.

I nodded slowly. "Right... you'll... monitor it."

Kirk spoke for the first time since he had called security.

"Well, sir, it's good to see you back up and on your feet."

I gave his yellow blur a good-natured glare and paired it with my signature smirk.

"Err... in a manner of speaking. I can't wait until you can get your command back."

"Honestly, I look forward to that too, son." I shook my head slowly, and relaxed back into the bed as a white blur of another doctor approached.

"I... uh... should probably get out of the way, though. And I need to be back on the bridge soon. Not that Spock isn't capable enough, but still, I am acting Captain."

I gave a slight smile. I remembered feeling like that on my first command. "Dismissed."

Kirk nodded solidly, turned on his heel, and strode out of the room.

Finally, I could rest. No more people—friends, that is. Unfortunately, that also meant that I was alone with my thoughts.

I smiled bitterly at the poetic irony of it all. I was always supposed to be the strength of the ship—the backbone of my crew. For now, I could barely stand. How on earth was that command material?

To be entirely honest, I didn't even think that I was going to return to full command duty. That was a frightening thought—my whole life had revolved around my work, practically. I didn't dare let Kirk know so as to get his hopes up, but I knew that a desk job was very likely in order for me...

A steady pain throbbed in my legs, and I gritted my teeth against it. McCoy had already given me a shot... but... admittedly, that soporific wasn't doing it. I bit my lip—so hard that the metallic taste of blood seeped into my mouth.

Another surge of pain rocked my entire body—the first time that it had happened in that intensity since I had woken up, and I groaned rather loudly.

There was still nothing I could do about it. Still. Nothing.

I looked up at the doctor, realizing that my vision was beginning to become clearer. "I'm... bored. There has got to be something that I can do right now."

The young brunette furrowed his brow at me as he adjusted something that I hadn't the incentive to turn my head to see. "I wouldn't know anything about that, sir."

"I'm sorry, son." I gave the boy the brief smile that I could manage. "I'm... I'm tired, and in a lot of pain... I don't know your name?"

The young man straightened and smiled in response. "Trust me; I have my own experience with injuries, sir." He turned slightly to reveal a large bandage peeking through the neck of his shirt. "Nothing compared to what you're going through, I'm sure, but I'd like to think that I did my part. And, it's David, sir. David Rexford."

"David... Rexford? As in—Liam Rexford? You—I have seen you before." I shifted uncomfortably in the bed, and continued. "Your father started Rexford Shoals Institute."

The young man nodded silently.

"I've met you before. You were... maybe four years old."

David gave a curt nod. "I did go there, whenever Mother was... detained." He mumbled, half to the floor, "Hated that place. They treated me like one of the inmates." The young brunette shuddered.

I bit my lip lightly. "Sorry... I didn't mean to make you... uncomfortable. I just... I've met your father. Starfleet business... I saw him recently—just a few weeks before this mission."

The doctor looked as if he could spit. "Yeah—well, Dad was even further gone than Mother. He's... umm... he's actually an inmate now. They let him keep the office, and he still genuinely thinks he's in charge of the place. Whole institute was overrun by Starfleet."

"I see... Well... Off the subject... what happened to your shoulder?"

"Shrapnel, sir. I was trying to help another crewmember during the attack... a nearby bulkhead exploded." The boy shifted his left shoulder uncomfortably. "A lot of supplies were destroyed, including most of the supply of the only sedatives I'm _not_ allergic to." He nodded to his shoulder. "Last dose, right here... The instruments and menders in the MedBay were destroyed, too, or at least damaged during the attack. Longer cool-down period between usages. I'm on the waiting list... It's already been days. Hopefully it won't be much longer; I'm tired of this thing getting in the way."

I nodded slightly. "I can't wait for this to be over." I growled as the throbbing grew in intensity. "My legs."

The young doctor gave a sympathetic smile. "I wish I could do something, sir. I do. But I don't know what I can do for you. I'm not going to give you another shot."

I shook my head. "Well, why not just talk to me?"

David smiled. "I just might. After I get done with my rounds."

"But of course, doctor. Thanks."

The young doctor walked away, and I leaned my head back, and tried to manage sleep.

...

 _Fire_. He remembered fire.

Bright orange and red flames leapt up from the wheat fields on Elysium. The entire colony, ravaged by the wind-driven fire. Thick, black smoke billowed from the Fuel Depot and towered into the starry night sky.

The burning chemicals stung his throat and lungs as he inhaled the terrible fumes. He was climbing up the sun-baked ridge to escape the glowing embers that threatened to set his escape route alight. The wind blew his hair into his face as he fled the area.

Twelve-year-old Christopher looked back at his home (what was left of it) as he reached the top.

People were running and screaming as they tried to save their loved ones from the blaze. He saw terrible things in that moment: things that would forever be seared into his mind.

A gust of wind swept the flames right into the path of fleeing colonists.

Friends of his and his parents were scrabbling up the ridge, as he had been just moments prior.

They weren't as lucky as he had been.

Some of the other colonists already on the top were reaching down, trying to grab their friends and haul them up so that they could flee. Some were already running for the island in the middle of the river only a hundred meters or so down the other side of the ridge.

He himself was trying to save his best friend, Caleb. Caleb was only a few months younger than Christopher, but Caleb was much smaller. He was struggling to climb up the loose gravel that tumbled down the steep incline.

"Caleb!" Christopher yowled as the fire spread up the summer brush. "Caleb, grab my hand!"

"I can't, Chris! I can't reach you!" Caleb tried to climb up the ledge, only to slide back down. The other colonists were simply running up the ridge, utterly ignoring the boy as they fled like rats over the ridge.

The younger boy yelled over the roar of the approaching flames, "Go! Save yourself!"

"No!" The older boy screeched as his right hand tried to reach down further. "I'm not leaving you to die!"

A hand on his shoulder tried to pry him away from the edge. "Christopher, we have to go!"

"No, Dad! Caleb is still down there!"

"Christopher, Caleb's parents will take care of him, but we have to leave now!" And Heston Prescott left his only son on the ridge. The boys were the last people on the ridge that was about to be overtaken by the wildfire.

Christopher reached down for one last attempt, and Caleb gave a huge heave upward. Their hands met. Christopher held his friend up over the ledge, and tried to pull him up.

And then... Caleb was gone.

A gust of dry wind blew the fire upwards and over the ridge. Christopher received a blast of fire to the face and right arm—the arm that held his friend.

An acrid stench filled his nostrils as pain flared in his face and arm, and he knew that he would never forget the smell of burning flesh. Tears began to flow freely down his face as he fearfully scrabbled away from the edge and ran towards the river. He hadn't let go. Caleb did.

His father was some paces ahead of him. Christopher was about fifty feet from the river, which would mean that his father was less than ten feet from the river bank. So close to the river... so close to safety. Then Heston Prescott stopped cold right in front of the river.

His father slowly turned to look at him. The man was already grievously burned across his entire body. He had received most of them in a desperate attempt to save his pregnant wife, Christopher's mother. Christopher bit back the tears of his memory as the gravity sank in... his mother had never even made it out of the hovel.

Christopher caught up to his father, but Heston Prescott was staring at the fire, which was by this time rushing down the ridge, aided by the dry summer wind. The tall man's eyes were glazed over, and he stared at the brilliant flames with a blank face.

Christopher grabbed his father's hand, and tried to pull him away. "Dad, come on!"

The man did not respond. He simply continued to stare blankly at the fire, which was rushing down the ridge towards them.

"Dad!" Christopher managed to push his father a few feet closer to the edge. They would literally just have to turn and jump into the river and swim across to safety.

The fire was practically upon them, and Christopher heard his father say in a low voice, "Go. I... Nothing left to live for."

Christopher stared at him with wide eyes. "You... you have me, Dad. I still need you."

"Go!" The man shouted, and very nearly pushed his son off the bank and into the river.

The water was freezing cold, but Christopher began swimming to the other side, turning every so often to see his father, a dark silhouette against the orange flames that roared up angrily and ate the rough, dry grass. Christopher gasped as salty tears stung the burns on his face, and ran down his cheeks into the freezing cold water.

Christopher struggled to tread the dark, murky liquid and gulped air whenever he got the chance. It was uncharacteristic of him to swim so terribly, or be so incredibly panicked. He suddenly realized that the combination of physical and emotional trauma and freezing cold water was not a good one. He was going into shock. He quickly flipped on his back, and attempted to simply float instead of tread—it wasn't easy in the freshwater river.

He had just barely made it to the other side in a weak backstroke, when he felt strong arms haul him out of the cold, dark water. He felt like a half-drowned rat as the farmhand Charlie dragged him away from the water's edge and helped him cough up the bitter black water. He retched dark fluid on the grey, sandy shore of the island as black raindrops began to pelt the survivors of the fire.

He weakly sat up, only to watch the angry orange rise higher and higher into the sky as it was contained by the river. A tiny black shape stood unwaveringly at the edge of the river.

Christopher saw the blaze envelop his father.

"DADDY!"

...

David Rexford had just completed his ten-minute run with the bone knitter when he saw Captain Pike stirring in his cot. The doctor's gaze drifted to the clock. It was 10 at night, almost exactly. It was of little concern at the moment; the dosage of detox medication was prepared, and it could be administered within the next few minutes. Pike would be OK, probably.

The young doctor, on the other hand, had finally been able to extract the shrapnel that had embedded itself in his own collarbone, and was proceeding to repair the hideous, infected wound that the piece of metal alloy left behind.

He watched the monitors spike from across the room, and he knew instantaneously that the captain must be having a nightmare. He knew how that went, because a traumatized patient was never a force to trifle with... Just his luck—all of it bad, unfortunately. David put down the instrument he had been using, and pulled his shirt back to its normal position.

He grabbed the next dosage, slowly stood, and ambled to the biobed. Between half of the normal shift, and picking up the night shift to let Dr. McCoy get a solid sleep for once in the week, David was exhausted. It just... never ended. The endless stream of injuries, and those already injured in the fight with the Narada.

He flicked the hypospray in his fingers, and sat down in the bedside chair. Suddenly, piercing blue eyes opened and lightning-fast hands gripped his shirt. It was at that moment that David Eligius Rexford truly grasped how incredibly powerful the captain was, even when debilitated. He yelped as Pike pulled him up into a position leaning over the biobed, so that his feet couldn't even touch the ground.

"What have you done?! I _told you to come with me!_ " Pike roared in grief, pain, terror, and fury for a few moments more.

The young doctor screamed as the captain shook him vigorously. "What are you talking about, sir?! You never—"

Pike growled and threw David backwards against the wall. The brunette struck it on his injured shoulder, and he crumpled to the floor.

David wiped the blood of his split lip on the back of his hand as he slowly stood. He held his injured arm, and gritted his teeth.

"I don't know what your problem is, _captain_ ," he practically spat. "But with all due respect, I outrank you as long as you are a patient in this MedBay, and you will _never_ do that _ever again_." He walked closer to his patent, and the latter recoiled. "Now. I think I deserve an explanation."

I blinked at David, and at the bright crimson that had begun to spread across the young man's shirt from his shoulder. I hadn't meant to...to hurt him. I was just... stressed out.

There was...there was dreaming and fire and drowning... and Charlie. Watching who I would later learn was my stepfather burn to death. Seeing the charred remains of hundreds people I knew, over fifty of them personally—almost half of them very, very undersize. They were just... just... memories. Resurfacing memories haunting my dreams from forty years earlier—it was precisely something that would happen to me. The doctor had simply... gotten caught in the wake of my night terror.

My voice shook as I struggled to form words into an explanation. "I...I didn't... I'm sorry."

The doctor had no idea what was happening in my mind. Of course, if he did, I would get kicked straight to his father's Institute. Rexford Shoals was the largest Terran insane asylum and rehabilitation facility—as I had explained to David, I'd been there before. I left out the part saying that I honestly never wanted to go there ever again. Especially not as a patient.

His voice shocked me out of my thoughts. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"I... I don't know... I just..." I trailed off a moment as I tried to find words.

"You know... I'm fully qualified to be a counselor, and I know danger signals for night terrors. You were obviously having one. What about?"

I gave a slight smile. This kid had guts, trying to be his captain's psychologist. I had dabbled a bit in the psychological effects of space travel when I was in the Academy; it was, unfortunately, a mandatory course to become an officer. I never really got into it, in particular. One thing I did know, however, was that David would not get anything substantial out of me. In retrospect, that was likely a reaction to the incident on the Narada, but nonetheless.

"My brother. My father. And Fire. Lots of fire."

David gave me a blank face for a moment, before he took the hypospray on a nearby table, and gave me the injection. The young man readied another hypospray, and set it on the table out of my immediate reach.

I bit my lip lightly. There were some things that definitely needed to be worked out. "Can- can I call... someone... on a PADD?"

David blinked. Twice. He finally sighed. "Alright. Here—" he set the communication codes in, and handed me the PADD. "I will be in the other room—I do not want any more trouble out of you." He slowly walked back to the back office in the MedBay.

I keyed in the registration number I wanted. I could only hope that he would pick up the line. A few moments of connecting time lasted before the PADD flashed to life. An elderly gentleman in old western clothing and a cowboy hat appeared on the screen. It was early evening there, and the brilliant sunset in the background suddenly made me unreasonably homesick.

"Christopher!" Charlie's coarse voice rang out through the line. "You look like you've been through hell-on-earth." I briefly saw my own face in the reflection of the PADD, and completely understood what he was referring to. I was unnaturally pale and gaunt—my face was... sunken. I looked like one of those old Prisoner of War photographs.

I smiled weakly at my father. The pain in my legs flared up again—I must have been so distracted with the night terror beforehand... "Well, Hoss, I wasn't on earth... but other than that, I think you've got a pretty good idea."

"No kidding. Damn. What happened to you, boy?"

"Well... that plasma drill that put the hole in San Francisco Bay?"

"How could I forget? I'm a _retired_ admiral, Christopher, not a dead one. I'm still on Starfleet's mailing lists."

I managed a chuckle as the pain throbbed in my legs. My father was so proud of the old-style lingo that he had taught me when I was little. For example: Mailing lists was one of my father's favorite expressions, along with any and every Parking Brake-related remark. "I see. Well, I got... injured in the incident."

Small side note: my bold blue eyes were almost solely inherited from my father. It made for very interesting conversation, especially in instances like now, when his eyes practically bored into my soul through the PADD as he leaned in imposingly. "You're still a damned-awful liar, son. I know you don't want to worry me, but you need to tell me what really happened." The man gave a slight smirk. "That's an order."

I deflated slightly as pain rocketed up and down my legs and back. "I... I was captured. Pressed... aggressively... for information. Security codes, the works. You know how it goes."

My father nodded solemnly from the other side of the line. "If you feel... comfortable enough sharing, from father to son... did... did they break you?

I shifted in the bed. "Err... yeah, Hoss. I... uh... there were..." I cut off abruptly to regain composure as my voice cracked. "Centaurian Slugs were involved, if that's any indication of how it went down."

My father's eyes closed for several moments. They slowly opened. "I've seen the work of Centaurian Slugs before, Chris." He bit his lip lightly. "Damn. Not many people survive that. I..." Tears were beginning to form in my father's eyes—something I hadn't seen since he had told me that I was his son. "I'm glad you're OK, son."

"Hoss... I didn't get away unscathed. My legs are... they constantly feel like they're burning."

"Are you going to recover?"

"I don't know yet. It's a little too early to tell for sure, anyways. We'll know when we get back in a few weeks. Chances aren't in my favor, though."

Charlie Pike was silent for a moment on the other end of the line. Then, when I could tell that he was desperate to change the subject to something other than that his eldest son had a high chance of being crippled, he said the very words that I dreaded. "So, Christopher... You aren't usually the one to... to call me. Shiloh usually calls first after an op. Have you been in contact with him?"

A thousand thoughts ran through my mind, not the least of which was seeing my brother's life flash before my eyes.

Shiloh was always the baby of the family. I met him first when I went to live with my father, Charlie, and my stepmother, Hobelia. I immediately fell for my adoptive little brother. He was only about two or three at the time, which meant that I carried it at every license to smother him with affection to the point of full humiliation.

He still loved on me, and I loved on him. In just a few years, we were the Pike Brothers; utterly inseparable by anything. We shared a love for space, mischief, and our own self-proclaimed 'ordered mayhem'. Despite his being a pyromaniac as a toddler, my hatred of fire rubbed off on him eventually. All in all, we were a good balance for each other. Age differences will do that.

When I went off to go to space (I ended up in Starfleet. Long, long story.), Shiloh was only nine. He was heartbroken, and strove to become a Starfleet cadet so that we could be together again. He joined as soon as was allowed—eight years after me. It was strange, I'll admit: knowing that my seventeen-year-old brother wanted to brave the dangers of space.

By the time Shiloh graduated the Academy eight years later, I'd received my own command, and gone on two full tours of duty.

A bit of explanation: at the time, explorative missions were only three years each. The five-year mission that Starfleet would later be known for was a mere pipe dream—a wondrous possibility that every young captain hoped would become a reality before they were retired. After all, space for us was kind of like the sea in the days of pirates and galleon navies. The allure of the heavens was too great to resist going back up there again and again and again. Unfortunately, every tour of duty spent there had to be balanced with a year of 'cool down' time, at least six months of which had to be spent in a 'leave of absence' (read: Getting Stranded) on-world, as per regulations.

An entire explanation of Starfleet slang would take a long time, but in short: A captain coming back for another tour of duty was called a Returning-to-Duty, or a Rid... it was sometimes paired with another phrase to make a teasing but envious 'Good Riddance'. A captain beginning his sabbatical was called a Castaway (Because you're stranded on an island in the great sea of space). A captain halfway through his 'cool down' was called a 'DSS Rat' (as in... a Rat trapped where he doesn't want to be—a Deep Space Station). I honestly think that the nicknames were just ways of coping with the fact that we hated being away from our ships. Enough of that, though.

As I said before, I had finished my second tour, (as well as living down the ramifications from a heavy failure during that)and was stuck being a Deep Space Station 3 Rat. I had been a Rat there before, as most captains did get a posting on a border regulator station, but it wasn't per say... the most exciting place in the universe. Nonetheless, my baby brother Shiloh somehow followed me there to the obscure little space station in a far corner of Federation territory.

The real punch below the belt? Shiloh had _asked_ for the post on DSS-3. Here was this bright young officer full of potential stuck in the middle of nowhere, just because he wanted to be with his brother.

I transferred out of DSS-3 as soon as I could, and again Shiloh followed me to my next command, a second run on the _Sanguinity_ , except as her captain instead of her first officer.

He quickly rose through the ranks during his tenure on the _Sanguinity_ , just as I had done twelve years prior. By the end of our three-year mission he had turned down multiple offered promotions to captain, instead preferring to remain my first officer.

He somehow managed to follow my command posts across most of my career. Tours, sabbaticals—we stuck together for years.

In time, there was indeed a... falling out, as there always is.

As brothers, there was always a handful of rivalry... but over the course of our careers, we had generally worked things out... but to be honest, there was an entire lifetime of rivalry that had gone untouched for years, because we were professionals. We were still balm for burnout.

On one night, about eighteen years prior to all this, it lit. Shiloh had almost twelve years of a less-than-should-have-been career, because he had followed me halfway across the galaxy, instead of taking the promotions he deserved. He probably could have been a full Admiral by the time he finally got his act together and took the promotion to Captain. I told him I thought so. He told me that he definitely agreed, but that he was offended that I would think that he did this for himself— he had done it to be with me. I argued that he had thrown away his career for his big brother. He argued that I completely right—I was actually shockingly average, and that he could have left me in his dust. I told him that I was offended in no uncertain terms. He replied similarly.

We put each other in the infirmary for a week. Multiple contusions in various places, many broken things, stab wound or two; the works. Over the recovery time, we... hugged and made up, pretty much. (Well... we did clear the air, but there was less hugging that there would have been, had we _not_ broken each other's arms...)

As fellow captains, we grew even closer. I honestly think that his being Commander under me was the source of the entire fight. As equals, however, we were... equal. We could afford to be unprofessional with each other once in awhile. We shared more jokes. We pulled more pranks. We went drinking together—things that _normal_ brothers do. After we became colleagues, instead of Captain and Commander, his mischievous side began showing itself again, to match me.

In later years, we found it amazing material for jokes and mischief that people always got our ages mixed up, or even inverted. That, of course, was due to the fact that, for our respective ages, we had greying hair in very... to say the least... _awkward_ proportions...

I still loved my little brother. It wasn't a difficult thing to admit that I would miss him- his bright eyes... his cheery smile... his hair that was, like mine, greying at the sideburns... just talking to him... joking with him...

I bit my lip lightly. "I... Dad. You... you really aren't going to like this."

Charlie's demeanor immediately changed. "You never call me Dad... Has something happened between you and Shiloh again?"

"No! No, we're... we're good. Nothing..." Tears welled in my eyes. I guess that it was the first time reality had truly sunk in. My little brother was dead. "Nothing's happened between us, Dad."

Silence.

I bit my lip. I really... didn't want to have to tell him this. "Hoss...Dad... Shiloh was commanding the _USS Odyssey_ , one of the ships in the fleet that went to aid Vulcan."

Still silence.

"Dad... My ship—the _Enterprise_ —was the only ship of the fleet that survived. Nero destroyed the rest. Shiloh... Shiloh was killed in the battle."

"My... both my sons."

"I'm really... I'm really sorry, Dad. I spoke with him... just before we disembarked on the mission. He was... he was a little upset at getting nothing but cadets to break in for the mission. He was hoping for some more experienced crew... I told-" I broke off abruptly as pain flared in my lower extremities. "I told him that it would be good practice. I told him that you'd be proud of the both of us, going out to help people. He... he liked that..." I smiled bitterly. My little brother. I would never hear him laugh again. "I teased him about being the only person older than twelve on the whole ship... he laughed, Dad. In that... wonderful, beautiful laugh of his." Tears were, by this time, flowing freely down my face. "He walked up the ramp happy."

My father mumbled a few incoherent words, at the sunset, before turning back to the screen. "Did... did you talk to him at all while... it happened? Did you see this... this Nero destroy the _Odyssey_?"

"No... That meeting in the hangar was the last time I talked to him."

I could see the grief, denial, and shock engraved in the lines on my father's face. I could see that he had practically aged fifteen years in thirty seconds. Charlie Pike finally spoke."He died alone."

"No, Dad." I tried to reassure him. "Not alo-"

" _GO TO HELL_!"

I visibly flinched. My father had never said anything like that to me before. "Dad... I... I know that this is—"

" _YOU HAVE NO IDEA_ ," Charlie hollered through the line. That was the end of it. Charlie smashed the side of the PADD on his end, and ended my call.

I was left in shock. How much, honestly, did I have to take from this? First, my brother dies in a battle he had no business being in. Then I'm captured and tortured. I come back to recover, only to learn that I'm likely now a cripple. Then I try to tell my father what happens, and he _literally_ tells me to go to hell. How much more?

What kind of life was there left for a traumatized, disowned cripple? _None_ , my mind told me resolutely. _There's nothing left for you. You're just like Heston, all those years ago_. I shot back a mental retort; _There are still people who need me. My wife, for one... No,_ my mind spat back. _You don't deserve her. Why should she want you? You can't even give her children now._ A volley of, _guilty_ and _victim_ rocketed through my mind as I tried to reason through my quandary. The mental argument promptly ended the moment I thought about Shiloh. _You couldn't save him. You let them torture you, because you felt responsible for his death, because you're responsible for everyone on the Enterprise, and for your baby brother_. A resounding verdict of _GUILTY_ echoed in my mind, followed by a harsh _crack_ , like that of a gavel.

The words replayed continually in my mind. _Brother. Dead. Shiloh. Guilty. Enterprise. Responsible. Cadets. Failed. Redemption?_ _No. Of course not._

I bit my lip so hard that I drew blood in the cut. I glanced upwards to the bedside table, where my next dosage was... just sitting there... So tempting. David was still in the separate room.

With a single, fluid motion, I surged upward and grabbed the hypospray off the table. I jammed it into my neck as I screamed to anyone who would listen, " _GUILTY!_ " I felt the cool liquid flow into in my veins. My vision tunneled, and it felt like my entire body seized up. I knew the symptoms of shock. My arm fell over the side of the bed, and the hypo dropped out of my limp fingers.


	5. Chapter 5

Well, he could honestly say that this incident was both the best and worst way to wake up from a tired stupor ever.

Leonard McCoy had woken up early, and decided to relieve his younger counterpart... Just his luck that he would walk in on David Rexford attempting to stop Christopher Pike's suicide attempt.

McCoy bit his lip lightly as he watched Pike sleep. The man was very, very lucky to be alive. Taking both doses of medication at the same time was bad enough, but Pike had genuinely _fought_ their efforts to keep him alive. McCoy still couldn't keep the agonized screams of, 'Please, just let me die!' out of his mind. The doctor had never known Pike to be the suicidal type. Under the circumstances, however, he knew that, as spontaneously-decided suicide attempts went, there wasn't anyone who really knew what they were doing.

McCoy's gaze drifted to David, who had collapsed in sheer exhaustion on a biobed after aiding in resuscitating Pike. The boy was obviously exhausted, so McCoy decided not to wake him even when the next shift would arrive.

It took awhile for Pike to come out of the woods. Of course, it seemed as though every time he was finally out of the woods, he intentionally turned tail and dashed right in again.

McCoy had decided to take the opportunity to do an extensive check on Pike's status, to see how he was faring through the healing process. He soon regretted his decision, purely because it resulted in him going out of his mind.

He had gone over his work three times. He had made sure that he had removed the Centaurian Slug safely. He had ensured that there was virtually no damage to the spinal cord. He had checked it, and checked it again. Then, when he was certain that the captain was no longer in danger from the Slug, he sedated his patient completely, and operated on the other issues that he had kept low-key so that the captain wouldn't panic. Operations upon operations that lasted for more than eight hours total... But it had been successful. Check that—it was successful, except for the residual pain.

These results still puzzled him, because there was no reason the captain should even be in so much pain. McCoy had checked everything over and over again. He thought that he had addressed everything. Still, there Pike was, laying in the biobed, while the doctors fought for his life, because the jackass-of-a-captain couldn't be troubled to do it himself.

Of course, McCoy had also been informed, much to the doctor's chagrin, that Starfleet wanted to question Pike about the tactics and technology used aboard the Narada. As if they didn't have enough problems already with trying to get back to Earth with no warp.

Pike began to stir, and McCoy jumped at the chance. "Captain. You're awake—how do you feel?"

"Alive," the man mumbled. McCoy made a mental fist-pump, before the other shoe dropped and Pike added, "When I would really rather not be."

McCoy gritted his teeth. _UNGRATEFUL BAS-_

Then he saw what was written in Pike's eyes and face.

He suddenly had... not an epiphany, but close to that. There was just... so much loneliness and hopelessness in the way the man acted, as if he were resigned to being in psychological and physical agony for the rest of his life. McCoy bit his lip. That was no way to live, and would honestly explain a lot.

McCoy blinked slowly. "I... don't want to impose, sir-"

"Then don't," Pike snapped hastily.

"BUT, I think you seriously need to talk some things through. I don't know why you've suddenly lost the will to live," McCoy pulled a chair up to the bedside. "So talk. You need this." He whipped out a polished metal sheet. Pike took one look at it, and his face turned impossibly whiter from its former pallor as he diverted his gaze. McCoy calmly set the mirror down. "So that's it. What scares you so much about this?"

...

"We are _not_ talking about this right now," I spat.

"Oh, _yes we are_." McCoy's eyes bored into mine. "We are talking about this right now. You took one look in that mirror, and you looked like you saw a damned _ghost_." McCoy gave me an injection—presumably analgesics, because the pain in my legs lessened slightly.

"So what? Means nothing." I bit my lip lightly. _LIAR_ , my mind hollered at me. _Stop hiding from the truth! You're terrified of the mirror, because it isn't you anymore! You hate the mirror, because it reminds you that you were_ debased _. It reminds you that your will_ broke _. Nero humiliated you—violated you—what do you expect? You expect normal? Naiveté on EVERY level!_ I grit my teeth. Of course that was accurate... but I didn't want to think about it. _You want something else. You're looking for a new identity. Whenever you see a mirror, you're reminded that you're just yourself. A fallible, abused human who is looking for life in the aftermath of torture._

"I don't think so," McCoy told me firmly. "You're deathly afraid of it..." He leaned forward, and set his chin on the table, crossing his arms in front of his mouth. "I have all day... what's going on in your head?"

I snorted. "You actually think I'm going to tell you?"

McCoy shook his head. "Well, you're going to tell somebody. If it's me, then OK. If it ends up being Starfleet when they interrogate you about the Romulan technology, then that's OK, too."

My heart skipped two beats at hearing the word 'interrogate'.

...

The very first thing Christopher Pike learned about Romulans by experience was that they were all business. He experienced that when they had seized him (Ayel clocked him.) the moment he stepped off the shuttle and escorted him to command room. He hadn't gotten a good look at the ship, mostly because they blindfolded him, but he did know that they were not generally averse to zapping their prisoners of war with electrical prods.

The second thing he learned about Romulans was that they were extraordinarily strong, as well as the fact that they (at least the vengeful ones) had unreasonable anger management issues. He experienced that when he had met Nero's initial questioning with defiance, and the praetor backhanded him, sending him reeling to the floor with a split lip, and stars floating across his vision.

The third thing Christopher Pike realized was that Romulans were... very violent outright. There was a very good reason why their torture chamber was flooded—for the sake of his stomach, those moments would never be rehashed, _ever_. They had let him dry out (albeit that he was still filthy and smelled like fuel, disease, sweat, and a plethora of other nasty things), but things went downhill from there.

They gagged him, cuffed him, blindfolded him, and pumped him full of sensory (read: pain) enhancing drugs (which was bad enough in itself, by the way). They then happily proceeded to chase him as he scrambled around blindly on the ship so they could beat the living daylights out of him. Then, just when he curled up on the floor into a little ball to die, they took off the cuffs, gag, and blindfold, and their ship's doctor was kind enough to heal him with their futuristic technology so that the process could start again.

It was all very surreal.

Once they tired of hunting him as an intimidation tactic, they simply reverted to the traditional 'strapped-to-a-table' method. Then the real fun began.

He quickly became acquainted with the Romulan's... rather disturbing fascination with human physiology. There were a variety of nasty things they observed: capability for bruising, bone strength, the effects of electrical current (shudder), and the effects of various stimulants when used at the same time. They were specifically and strangely intrigued by pain thresholds, and the placement of his organs (two aspects of humans that his agonized screams quickly evidenced were not _entirely_ mutually exclusive). Enough said. Of course, the ship's doctor was there to undo anything Nero's goons did.

Please note, as well, that this all occurred within about four hours.

Then Pike realized that they were actually recording everything for science, which somehow made him feel both honored and furious in the same breath. He was potentially facilitating further human suffering, in simply being here.

Then Nero himself came down to the torture chamber, and Pike was absolutely certain that the ultimate effects of _that_ would be very, very negative. At least the other Romulans were simply brutalizing him with little purpose to it all. With Nero, he actually had a secret to protect.

Fourth thing learned: Romulans make good on threats.

"Frequencies, please, sir."

He had met and survived a whole variety of different torture techniques with resolve and an _unhealthy_ amount of confidence, but Pike had stared at Nero for a moment in genuine fear at the prospect of getting that... skittering, writhing, hissing _thing_ dropped down his throat. He kept his cool, however, and defiantly rattled off his name and rank. Any remaining courage and bravado absolutely disintegrated when the tongs clamped down on his jaw, and forced his mouth open...

He just screamed for the rest of it.

...

"I... there are a lot of resurfacing memories. Bad ones," he finally answered. "Think of where I show up in cadets' history lessons. And why I'll show up now."

McCoy slowly nodded at me. Unfortunately, the story of Heston Prescott was a mandatory read in Starfleet History. (Chances were, this would be as well.) "Your parents, right?"

I slowly nodded. "My parents... and then now. Vulcan. The cadets... Shiloh."

"Your brother. Captain of the Odyssey."

I closed my eyes, and nodded soberly. "M-hm. I let my father down. I promised to protect Shiloh." I opened my eyes, and a tear squeezed itself out of my eye, and ran down my face. "Why does everything I do just... self-destruct as soon as I touch it?"

McCoy looked at me earnestly. "Sir, you can't blame yourself for things like that. If you do, you're going to drive yourself into the ground. You can't handle everything. Sometimes you have to rely on other people. This is one of those times."

"The captain doesn't let his men see him bleed. His people rely on him... That's why I have this job. I'm supposed to be able to handle it."

"Yeah, yeah. A captain doesn't let his men see him bleed—true..."McCoy nodded. "On the other hand, with all due respect, sir, you're _dead wrong_ on the last part. You have good people. You can be strong without being so... resistant to our efforts to help you, sir. Just look at a Starfleet history book. You inspire people, sir. Shiloh Pike named his first command, the SS Resilient, if you remember; and according to him, he named it after you, in case you've forgotten." McCoy straightened out. "Your strength... it shows through. And its' spilled over onto other people. Let the people whom you've given strength give you strength for once."

I was about to give McCoy a few choice words about his respect (lack thereof) for a superior officer, but I was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream from the other side of the MedBay, as well as sudden waft of a terrible stench.

I remembered the smell from when I was twelve—colonists whose burns had gotten infected in the aftermath of the fires.

I knew the voice from the night before...

McCoy rushed to the other side of the MedBay, where David Rexford had taken up my own personal past-time: screaming and thrashing on a biobed while in very, very apparent agony. To be honest, between David and me, I really didn't know how any other patients even slept at all. Several other patients had already turned their heads toward the young doctor, either in interest or pity (possibly both). However, that wasn't important to me as I sat up (with much difficulty), and watched as McCoy wrestled with his fellow doctor. It was a muddled flailing of arms and legs (I didn't know whose, at several instances) as McCoy tried to get David to calm down. As a person familiar with immense physical discomfort, I knew all too well that there was little chance of getting David to do so.

...

"David! Breathe!" McCoy hollered. "Breathe! Calm down! Stoppit—" It was difficult to control the younger man's movements as he thrashed and struggled. McCoy couldn't even get the restraints over Rexford's chest to hold him down. The opaque white fluid leaking out from the greyish flesh of the wound frightened McCoy unreasonably, as well as the pallor of the arm itself. "I can't help you unless you calm down!"

A flash of white and grey entered the edge of McCoy's vision, and its owner proceeded to lay his hand on Rexford's right shoulder, and his arm across the young doctor's chest. McCoy promptly jumped up, and ran to the cabinet to prepare for full surgery. That's when he realized who was helping him.

...

At first, David didn't quite realize what was going on. He knew that he was awake. He knew that his shoulder was radiating pain on an unreasonable level. He knew that Doctor McCoy was wrestling with him, trying to contain flailing limbs that were obviously his. He thought he could hear speaking. It was hard to hear over his own screams. Still, he was in quite a bit of pain, anyways, so reality was kind of up for grabs at this point.

A second face appeared and strong hands held him down, and steered very clear of his left shoulder and arm, for which he was extremely grateful. Doctor McCoy suddenly disappeared, and David was left with the newcomer.

Pain throbbed in his shoulder—he should have done something with the bone knitter before, so that it wouldn't have gotten infected. Now, he knew, there was a good chance he would lose him arm for the neglect. Again, though, at this point, all he could think about was the pain that began at the wound in his left shoulder, and pulsated throughout his left arm and chest.

A tear squeezed itself out of his eye.

He felt a gentle hand run through his hair. The affection was strangely comforting. He heard a smooth baritone in his ear, and for a moment he was back in the nursery, before his mother started using, and his father went off the deep end.

"Come on, David," the voice rumbled. "You have to hang in there, son. I know it hurts, but you have to keep going. It'll only be a little while longer."

"My arm—Agh! I'm gonna die," David gasped.

"You are _not_ going to die. I... I promise you that much. But you have to keep going. Only a little while longer, son."

David stared wide-eyed at the last person he would expect to be helping him. " _Captain?_ " His head lolled to the side as pain flared throughout his shoulder and arm and made him feel sick to his stomach.

He felt a strong hand gently grip his jaw, which redirected his gaze to see Captain Pike. "I need you to stick with me, son." Titanium blue orbs stared earnestly back at David. "Eyes on me; stay focused. Don't think about the pain... Think about poetry... or... think about... songs. What's your favorite song?"

"I..." David blinked as he thought. He tried to push the agonizing throb in his shoulder out of his mind. "I dunno what my favorite song is..."

Pike smiled warmly back at him, though David could see that the captain was in immense pain himself. "Well, what kind of songs do you like?"

"Er... I like... some of the older styles," he gasped. "I mean, not classical-old..." A second tear streaked down David's face as the pain became near-unbearable. "The 20th century stuff. 80's Rock."

...

I looked over at McCoy briefly. He had donned some sort of surgical gown, and he bore several utensils in his hand, none of which I was sure would make this any easier for David, not to mention for me. I avoided staring at the glint of the scalpel, and avoided thinking about how there would be no anesthesia.

Speaking of—my legs _really_ hurt. Again. Whatever, I decided. David needed my help.

McCoy walked over to the side of the biobed, and gave me a grim nod.

"David," I said to him as calmly as I could manage. "Can you sing one of your favorites for me?"

He blinked at me, and for a moment, I could see trust written in the boy's face. "Eye in the Sky. Alan Parson's Project," he gasped.

"Good," I gave him a reassuring smile.

His shaky voice sounded in the MedBay, the lyrics to a very old song. It reminded me of another friend I had—that was his favorite song, too. 'Was' being the operative word there, at least, before he got his face slashed by a sadistic girlfriend... But that's another story for another day.

I prepared to hold David down as McCoy readied the scalpel. The CMO seemed incredibly reluctant to go through with it.

I saw the scalpel go down into grey flesh. David bucked, and a mist of blood caught me in the face. I simply held him down and tried my best to put the screaming out of my mind.

...

David Rexford kept his arm. It took some time, but McCoy was able to cut away the rancid flesh. I wished earnestly I could say that the surgery as a whole went easier than when it began, but that was unfortunately pretty much how the rest of it went, as well. That is, me using my weight to hold David down, and trying to comfort him what little I could, to let McCoy do the gruesome work of surgery without anesthesia. At least—until David passed out when McCoy was stitching him up. That made things considerably less traumatizing... Didn't make things any less disgusting, though.

I slowly stood up, using the biobed for support as McCoy tied the last suture off. My right hand was practically covered in opaque white fluid and blood. I wiped it on my formerly white hospital shirt. I say formerly, because there was an awful lot of red spray on that, too. As soon as I did, I took the shirt off and tossed it into the same biohazard bin that McCoy had dumped the slivers of flesh from the wound he had just cleaned, chemically cauterized, and stitched up.

McCoy slowly did the same with his hospital gown as he set the instruments on a small tray beside the biobed. We made brief eye contact. My gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. The day shift would be arriving in just a few minutes. "Quite a night," I said wryly.

I stood a little straighter (noticing that, for once, my lower extremities weren't causing me complete agony), and attempted to walk back to my own biobed. I didn't make it half that far.

...

Why was his life so... involved? If it wasn't Kirk being intensely allergic to half the things in the cabinet, then it was Kirk and Spock trying to get the ship sucked into a black hole. If it wasn't pandemonium, then it was watching his comrades die under his care. If it wasn't absolute chaos from a half-exploded MedBay, then it was trying not to send the captain into circulatory shock during treatment. If it wasn't losing sleep out of panic over how he really should be in the MedBay, then it was going to the MedBay and discovering that said captain just attempted suicide. If it wasn't David Rexford nearly going septic from an unattended and infected wound, then it was Pike outright collapsing on the floor.

McCoy hissed a series of expletives as he rushed to the captain. The man crashed to the metal floor, and rolled onto his back, looking suddenly very much like a turtle. McCoy carefully looked him over from above, trying to get an idea of any injuries. The last thing he needed in this situation was a broken neck.

"Don't stand there like a damned codfish, son!" Pike hollered after a moment. "Only thing hurt is my pride; _for Pete's sake,_ _help me up_!"

"All due respect, sir, but..." he knelt down. "Before I do, I have to ask you—why did you fall in the first place?"

"I don't know—" Pike near-shouted in frustration. "My legs feel fine, for once!"

That was a red flag up outright for McCoy. "They feel fine." Just then, a pair of nurses entered the MedBay, and gasped when they saw the Doctor and captain. McCoy would later learn that it was for very, very _wrong_ reasons, but for the time being, the doctor simply warned their presence off with a wave of his hand. "Fine? As in... they don't hurt at all?"

"Yes!" Pike huffed in frustration. "They don't hurt at all!"

That's when McCoy slowly placed his hand on Pike's ankle, and the captain's eyes widened, before closing slowly. "They... they haven't-" his suddenly relaxed voice dropped to nearly a whisper. His eyes opened to slits."I don't feel anything. At all. My legs; I can't feel them."

McCoy slowly nodded. "That's why you fell?"

Pike shook his head slowly. "I should have been more skeptical... my legs didn't hurt. I shouldn't have tried. I—I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well, you should be," McCoy half- hissed at his captain. "You know how badly you could have hurt yourself? You could have broken what's left of your damned neck, and where do you think that would have left us?" McCoy quickly whipped out a tricorder, and scanned the captain. "No... prevailing signs of trauma. Let's get you back to bed." McCoy deftly slipped his arm under the captain's back, and helped him sit. He then lifted the man up, bridal style, and carried him over to the biobed.

Pike let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding as McCoy set him down on the bed. McCoy continued to scan him.

...

"Is it permanent? They'll never let me back on the bridge of a starship if I-" my voice broke as I realized the finality of something like that. "If I can't walk... Oh, _god_..." I looked up at the ceiling. Tears welled in my eyes as I sent a brief prayer to... to Fate (probably), or whatever cosmic... whatever that most people prayed to, but didn't really believe in.

To be honest, I'd never been a religious type. Most of Starfleet discouraged it in favor of rationalism, anyways, and who was I to argue? I mean, I'd grown up Catholic, thanks to my mother and stepfather... but then, a lot of other people had... I used to practice, too. Then there were the fires on Elysium... After that, I'd decided that God, or whatever I _thought_ I'd believed in before didn't really exist. I had held to that dogma since I was twelve.

I turned my head back to the doctor as a tear escaped and trailed down the side of my face. "I'm never going to walk again, am I?"

...

McCoy could barely look Pike in the eyes. There was just so much hopelessness there, and for that matter he didn't need any more of it than there already was to go around. "I don't know. I was afraid this was going to happen, honestly. There's been so much damage... If you're lucky, then it may be... the nerves were overloaded, and they've sort of... shut off."

"If that were true, then... if my nerves started working again... would I still feel the pain?"

McCoy tipped his head. "Again. I don't know. If the pain was psychosomatic, which I'm not saying that it was, but _if_ it was, then... you _might_ not. On the other hand, if it was physical, or anything else, really, then... yeah. You'd feel it."

"So, I can go through life paralyzed, or in agony."

"Maybe not... but... there's a good chance that... yes. You very well may."

...

If I said that the road to recovery was long... it would probably sound incredibly cliché. Still... it was. Very long, often painful... but very, very worth the trouble. It took some time for me to come to terms with the fact that I was paralyzed, and would likely never walk again, but I did, eventually. It took more time than I would have liked before McCoy deemed we well enough not be on a liquid diet. After starting solid food, I slowly began to look more like my normal self. I did look about ten years older, due to my suddenly all-grey hair, but then again, considering what _could have_ happened, that was OK.

We still had almost a week to go before we made it back to earth by the time I had been cleared to come and go from the MedBay during the daytime, and I was feeling something like my old self. I puttered around the _Enterprise_ in a wheelchair at every chance I got, and it wasn't long before I performed regular daily rounds about the halls of the _Enterprise_.

I was still tired a lot, and my neck and arms hurt both more _often_ and just generally _more_ than I would have preferred, but the residual discomfort in my upper body was manageable with a few light painkillers.

As the nurses quickly learned, my usual self was rather mischievous (unconventionally so) as ship captains go, and I entertained them with playful banter and harmless harassment whenever I felt up to it. Most of the time, I was tired, and I was doing my physical therapy exercises with David, but during my free time, I felt very much... semi-normal. I only say semi-normal because I still couldn't walk, or even feel my legs at all. If you hadn't noticed, I thought about that a lot...

Honestly, though, the one person I really sympathized with _was_ David. After the surgery... despite the fact that he kept his arm, it didn't do him any good, because it just hung limply at his side. He said that he still felt it occasionally, and he still had that bright smile plastered all over his face, but I somehow sensed there was a darker side to that optimism.

I found it out early in the morning before we were scheduled to dock at earth, when I was supposed to be sleeping. I had woken up in the middle of the night, and I somehow couldn't find it in me to sleep. I had just about given up on sleep, when I saw David sitting cross-legged on his bed (he had been transferred to the biobed next to me, by the way), staring blankly at the wall. I was about to sit up, and ask him what was going on, when I saw McCoy walk slowly into the room. For all it was worth, McCoy's face was so forlorn... he looked like he was the grim reaper's messenger. He sat down next to David, and the latter moved. His limp hand moved out from his lap, and he quickly placed it back when he had settled in his new position.

"Well," David asked. I could tell his voice was thick with tears. "What's the verdict?"

McCoy bit his lip lightly. "I... I'm so sorry, David. There's just so much... damage. Your arm... because it won't work right again... I tried to convince them... but they wouldn't have it."

David bit his lip, and I saw a tear streak down his face. "I knew it. I just... held on to one last hope that maybe... just maybe..." He trailed off.

McCoy had tears in his eyes, by this time. "I'm sorry, David." He slowly stood, and David turned to face him. The boy's legs dangled down over the side of the biobed, and his limp arm dragged uselessly at an awkward angle along the blanket. I winced- I had little idea of what was going to happen, but I was sure it wasn't going to be good.

The two doctors sat there for several moments. Neither moved a muscle.

" _Just get it over with!_ " David near-screamed.

I nearly cringed. The boy was hyperventilating, and his voice cracked with emotion as tears rolled down his cheeks. I watched him tremble in his misery.

McCoy finally spoke to the trembling, weeping wreck of a man in front of him. "David Eligius Rexford, I award you this citation for your Noble Service of the _USS Enterprise_ and her crew, as well as for Injuries Sustained in Combat on their behalf." The older doctor presented the boy with a small black box, and I could see just from the design of the box that it was an antique Purple Heart.

I saw David nearly smile, but it was made bitter by McCoy's next words. "However, due to aforementioned injuries, it is with the deepest regret I inform you that," the CMO paused to regain his composure. "You are hereafter relieved of duty as a medical officer of the _USS Enterprise_. You shall retain all achieved ranks and titles, but are dismissed from Starfleet. Furthermore, Medical Command has requested that your... your pin be returned, as, due to your infirmity, you are hereafter barred from active medical practice until further notice." McCoy slowly unpinned the small Rod of Asclepius from David's lapel.

David slowly stood. His jaw was steeled, and I could see that it took all of the boy's composure not to break down again. "It's been an honor serving with you, sir." He held out his hand.

McCoy smiled kindly at his fellow doctor, and shook his hand. "No, David. It was our honor." He bit his lip lightly, and then wrapped his other harm around the boy in a tight hug. "Godspeed, son!"

David simply leaned into the hug and smiled, though it was a smile riddled in tears. He slowly pulled back. "Thank you, sir. Likewise."

With that, David turned, and walked out of the MedBay.

...

Docking was... a complicated affair, to say the least. There was near-chaos as the shuttles arrived at the land docks. There were hundreds if not thousands of people straining against the riot officers, trying to see if they could spot their loved ones aboard the shuttles.

I slowly exited my shuttle using metal crutches and leg braces, and walked out onto the deck. I saw the cadets... former cadets... slowly file out of the shuttles and solemnly line up at attention at the railings. There was an uproar of screaming as I appeared... So many people looking to me in one last desperate grasp for hope that their loved ones were alive. I was the one who would crush that hope.

I looked at the barracks officer, and slowly nodded. I took the PADD from his hand, and winced. There were so many names. So many young people who... who wouldn't be coming home. My eyes first scanned the list of ships destroyed. The Odyssey. The Newton. The Farragut. The ship names rang out in my ears. Destroyed. All of their crew killed. I switched the screen display from the list of Killed in Action to those coming home. I fought back tears as I spoke. The crowd suddenly stilled.

"The following... cadets today receive their promotions, and their Noble Service Citations for service aboard the _USS Enterprise_." My voice rattled off the names in alphabetical order, and one by one, cadets filed off the deck and down to ground level, where small NS pins were placed on their collars, and their relatives were allowed to see them.

My voice sounded incredibly hollow as it rang out over the clearing. It was met with tears of both joy, and despair as I listed some names, and didn't list others. Finally, all of the cadets from the Enterprise had exited the deck. They were down on the ground with their families- the affection there was amazing. I gave a silent sigh as they were slowly herded away from the area. I gave a brief, bitter smile as I continued.

"The following cadets were unable to attend this ceremony, due to injuries, but they today receive their Noble Service citations, as well as their citation for Injuries Sustained in Combat." I again listed the names in alphabetical order. My voice was met with relieved sighs and wails of sadness as the some of the people below realized what this meant for those unlisted. There were still more than five sixths of the people there.

"The families of the following cadets..." my voice nearly cracked. "Are asked to receive the... posthumous citations for Noble and Sacrificial Services aboard the _Enterprise_ , the _Farragut_ , the _Newton_ , the _Odyssey_ —" my voice continued to list the ships, and then listed the cadets by their full names.

Hundreds of people came, one by one, to the Starfleet officers, who presented them with the NSS medal. They and their families were quickly escorted to a separate, roped off area so that they could leave in peace. Still, it was difficult to silence the wailing that followed my voice as I listed off the cadets of all the ships that had been destroyed. I felt like the grim reaper's messenger.

...

"David." I slowly ambled toward the young doctor, who seemed completely lost in thought as he stood in the middle of the emptied clearing. The sun was setting, and throwing beautiful orange hues into the evening sky.

He turned towards me slowly, his left arm in the sling that he had fashioned out of an old white shirt. "Captain," he said curtly, before turning back to stare at the sandy ground. "Permission to speak freely?"

I nodded.

"Your parents didn't come either, I take it."

I stood next to him, and shared the moment of reflection. "Well... my father... Charlie... was put off when I called him last. Hobelia probably doesn't know I've even come back. At least, not all in one piece. Don't know about my wife. I'm going to have to call her soon."

David gave a bitter laugh as he pulled out two vials of blue liquid. Some sort of ale— how had he gotten a hold of that? "My father is in the asylum. Don't know where my mother is." He handed me one. "To the rejects—the orphans." He uncapped the vial, and tipped it back into his mouth, and I did the same. It had been ages since I had a good drink; the burning liquid was surprisingly refreshing.

I smiled sideways at him. Even with crutches, I was slightly taller than him."It's against regulations for cadets to have this sort of thing just lying around. Even worse to be drinking it."

David chuckled. "Except that I'm not a cadet anymore. Or did you forget that conversation that you eavesdropped on earlier this morning?"

I lost a beat, momentarily. "You knew?"

David smirked. "The whole time—yeah. Your breathing evened out. You weren't tossing. Or..." he looked sideways at me. "Or snoring."

My brow furrowed as I looked at him sideways, and he let out a brief guffaw—something I hadn't heard enough of recently. He looked back down at the ground, and pulled his lips in, and I could tell he was trying desperately not to burst out laughing at my reaction.

I mocked at offense. "I snore?"

David continued to chuckle. "Yep... Not badly, though, sir," he reassured me. "Your secret is safe with me."

I made a face, and he let out an even bigger laugh. A tiny smile finally spread on my face. "Hm. Well, I'm glad that I have someone so trustworthy."

He continued to laugh, but I could tell that it was turning into one of ironic amusement. "What-what are we doing here, sir?"

"Well, I'm waiting for my wife," I said, trying to lighten the mood somewhat.

David turned, and we made eye contact. "You know what I mean."

I remained silent. This was obviously going to be a figurative can of worms, and I was not about to open it.

"There's just... so much death and destruction. And for what? What is there left for men like us here at Starfleet? The orphans. The maimed. We can't do anything for Starfleet. All due respect to you, Sir. I did hear about your promotion to Admiral... but I don't have anything left. I've lost my career out of this. Being a doctor was all I ever wanted to do... But I can't, because of this stupid arm."

"Firstly," I told him. "That promotion is what we old-timers call a 'Pity Promotion'. Usually happens after a traumatic mission outcome, and just before a medical discharge, to try and make up for it all... Kind of a "just _take_ the damned desk job" prompt. But aside from that, it sounds like you're trying to justify the Medical Council's decision to let you go in your mind."

David gave a sheepish smile at the ground. "I am." He looked back at me, and his eyes bored into mine. "I just... wish I knew why it had to be this way. I feel like I've just... hit bottom. I've lost everything. What kind of life is there left for me?" He bit his lip lightly.

"You know, David," I looked back up at the sunset, and turned him so we could both see it. My arm rested over his shoulders, and I was leaning heavily on the remaining crutch. "We're built with this... this sort of... hole in us. It's where our _purpose_ goes. If we don't have one, we'll just waste away." I bit my lip lightly.

David made no reply.

"A lot of people don't find anything to fill it... at least, not completely. I think you've found something to fill your purpose." A few tears suddenly showed up in my eyes. "I mean, I've been looking for something to fill that void for... decades. I've found... happiness... in my career. My marriage to Vina... but nothing has ever filled it fully, you know? There are those days that I just look around, and think: There's no reason why I need to be here. No reason for anyone to be here. But that's the void talking."

I looked at him a moment, and his gaze met mine, though he was still silent. "Don't settle for less, kid. You've got something—something I don't think I ever had, or, at least, the remainder of which I gave up, and have regretted it since. So don't give it up... don't be like me." I patted his shoulder lightly, and he nodded.

I lifted my arm from David's shoulders, and slipped it back into the crutch. He turned his back to me, and began walking towards the road. Within a minute, or two, he had hailed a taxi, and was on his way. I slowly turned and walked forward several meters, only to see two newcomers—professional looking, too—striding along the dusty ground to meet me.

"Captain Pike?" They didn't seem too pleased with me, and the one on the left looked especially menacing.

My brow furrowed, and I attempted to keep a light outlook on the situation. "Gentlemen?"

"Come with us," the one on the left said curtly.

I blinked a moment. "Firstly, may I ask... just _who the hell do you think you are_?" I glared at both of them.

They were utterly unfazed. In fact, one of them pulled out a badge—a legit metal-and-gold kind of thing. "Section 31, Captain. We're here to bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?!" I stared incredulously at the two of them. "I just spent _forty-eight damned hours_ getting questioned for information! I am most definitely not ready for _another damned round_ , if you take my meaning," I said hotly.

"With all due respect, sir, you _are_ coming with us. Under orders from Admiral Marcus." They grabbed my arms and began hauling me away. Now, since my legs still did not function, I was left with two crutches. I was not entirely versed with the idea of smacking "young-uns" over the head with a cane, and it seemed rather _senile_ (at my age in Starfleet, you can never be too careful about how you come across). Still, I was relatively unable to defend myself at the moment, and, even worse, David was gone.

So, I struggled what little I could, and they still hauled me off to a separate building. I was on my way to the next stage of my adventure. Well... I say adventure.

 ** _To Be Continued..._**


	6. Chapter 6

"At least—at least let me call my wife! She's gonna be worried sick," I said hotly as I shook the agents off in the doorway to the, aptly named, Interrogation Room. I made it to the table (barely—but don't tell anyone), and sat down opposite the mirror.

"You have one call and five minutes—to any legal services you require."

" _Legal services_?" I snorted incredulously. " _Hell_ , who's on trial here- _the Narada, or me_?!"

One of the agents coldly placed the PADD on the table. "One call. One call only."

I snorted again as the agents left. "Jerks."

Choosing who my phone call would be to was, to say the least, a challenge. My first thought was along the lines of why I would need legal services. I had a name for myself as one of the best, most convincing, and most unofficial _negotiator_ in Starfleet. Don't laugh—it was legitimate, and _much_ needed.

I was capable of, and experienced with, defending myself before an entire board of the highest-ranking Admirals in Starfleet (my _much younger_ days... Don't ask. Don't tell.)...

I had been the defense attorney in multiple cases involving the Academy. I had protected all of the cadets I defended from being expelled from the Academy. On the flip side, I had also served as prosecution in several cases regarding crimes _against_ Starfleet. All in all, I had taken more than twenty Starfleet-related cases; more than any other non-official lawyer.

Not to mention that I had... temporarily withstood Romulan torture techniques, and even a Mind-Meld. Sure I could handle whatever this... Section 31 had in store for me.

Just in case, I called the one man who I figured could be trusted to know what was going on.

I punched in the proper comm codes, and the screen lit up with the face of my mentor, and boss. "Alex."

"Chris!... You look like Hell chewed you up, and spat you out again," he drawled.

"Thanks, Alex. I like you, too." I shook my head. Admiral Marcus—a good man... not known for his tactfulness, but still a good man.

"So, what are you calling about, Chris?"

"Well... Alex, it's like this. There are some Section 31 goons holding me in this little grey cell. I'm just as happy to give a debriefing as the next guy, but this," I rapped my knuckles on the metal table, briefly remembering the Narada. "This is starting to give me bad vibes. Like... Post-Traumatic kind of vibes. I don't like that."

Alex's brow furrowed. "Well... I don't know what I can do. I can't interfere with their work, I'm sorry. I know that some of their activity is... uncouth, to say the least... If it makes you feel any better, you do retain the right to have a doctor present for an interrogation. I'll contact... McCoy, was his name?"

I looked up to see the agents entering the room. Their faces were unfathomably grim. I fought the urge to recoil. "Uhh... yeah. McCoy. And Kirk—temporary captain of the Enterprise. Don't forget about Kirk... Listen, I think I have to go..." I promptly cut the comm line.

The agent swiped the PADD out of my hand. The glass shattered into tiny pieces on the floor, and I stared at it for a moment.

"Eyes here!" The agent slapped the metal table as his friend spun me around on the chair, and I fought negative memories back.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? I outrank you!" My bravado had lasted this long—I hoped that it wouldn't soon fail me. "This is a civilized Starfleet interrogation—not a torture session! I'll bust your butts so low—"

The man sitting laughed. "Good to know that you'll try, sir." He leaned in imposingly. "Firstly: were you able to access any of their technology?"

"What are you talking about? Are you daft?" I snarled at him in defiance and incredulity. "Of course not! I wasn't on a damned joyride!"

"A simple 'no' would suffice." The young man—a lieutenant by his lapels—simply opened up a paper file that he had carried in. "Secondly: You were confronted by Nero, after the destruction of the fleet sent to Vulcan?"

I nodded silently.

"And why did the Romulans spare your vessel, and yours alone?"

My brow furrowed as I attempted to recall. "He... he recognized one of my crew. Commander Spock. I'm sure you've combed the reports for information— this... shouldn't be new to you."

The man gave a sickly sweet smile. "Well, you can never be too careful, can you?"

I shifted what little I could in my seat.

"We recovered... an audio recording, from the last comm line that the Odyssey relayed to Vulcan—it, and the others that the Vulcans were able to get to us were the last surviving records." He pulled up a computer chip and player in a bag out of his pocket.

The reel played. A lump rose in my throat the moment I heard my brother's voice on the recording. It sounded just like what had happened to us... except that Shiloh never made it out.

"'Enterprise,'" Shiloh's voice hollered. "'If you get this message before you drop out of warp, Code Red Emergency! STAY CLEAR OF VULCAN! DO NOT APPROACH!'"

More explosions went off in the background. Agonized screams rang out.

"'Abandon ship! Abandon ship!'" My brother's voice rang out in the comm. Another explosion.

I heard my brother scream, as he was presumably torn apart by stray shrapnel.

The lieutenant stopped the recording as soon as the static signaled the destruction of the ship, but before the static, I heard the one thing that very well broke my heart. It was almost unintelligible, but I could have sworn that I heard one last, "Bye, Chris... I love you."

I wiped a tear off of my face that I didn't realize was there. "Why—why are you showing me this?"

A thought came to me. Vulnerability. They wanted me to spill my guts. I bit my lip lightly. They weren't getting anything. If Shiloh meant anything to me, I resolved, then they wouldn't get anything out of me about it as long as they were trying this 'guilt trip' stuff.

The lieutenant continued as if I had said nothing, which only confirmed my theory. "Thirdly: the Romulan Nero demanded your presence onboard his ship. You obliged him. Why?"

I blinked. "Well, if I hadn't, he would have destroyed the Enterprise, beyond a doubt. My presence aboard the Narada allowed my crew to formulate a plan of attack."

"You left your First Officer as Captain, and you promoted to First Officer a cadet who was not even cleared for active service."

"Kirk was... capable." I blinked, and turned on my diplomatic mode. "Besides... I felt like he was ready. He showed creative thinking, and we needed that in that particular instance. I was unprepared for the end result of his subversion of command."

The lieutenant nodded slightly, apparently satisfied with my answer.

"Now. After you boarded the ship, you didn't see anything? Anything at all?"

I blinked, and tried to clear the fog from my mind. "I... saw the bridge. Partially. I was being held at gunpoint. Nero tried to question me about security codes."

"Did you give any said codes to him at that point?"

I suddenly took offense at the way he flippantly assumed that I had cracked that easily."Who the _hell_ do you think you're talking to?! Of course not!" I gnawed my lip as I tried to control my temper. "He... struck me. They blindfolded me again, and the rest of it was... inconsequential."

"Did you see anything on the bridge?"

"There were... strange weapons systems. They were an odd design—but then, Romulan technology is different from ours, anyways. You know, by the time their technology advances to that point, ours will have advanced, as well..."

"An extra leg up always helps, sir. What about their... interrogation facilities?"

I bit my lip again, this time to hold back the flood of memories that threatened to carry me away into a flashback. "They were using some sort of... medical bed, it seemed. Except that it had been refitted into a..." I swallowed the tightness in my throat. "Into a restraining table." If I kept this up, I was gonna lose it. "I... uh... don't remember anything else."

"Really? Nothing?" The other agent, the one who had previously remained silent, spoke. "I think you're _lying_. I think you remember much more than you're telling us." I looked at the man's lapels, and realized he was not only an agent, but also a commander.

I shot a pleading glance to the lieutenant, but the man had stood up, and was starting to leave. "So what if I do?" I said as he left the room, and closed the door behind him. "Some things... are not fit to be spoken of."

"Why?" the agent began circling the table. It gave me a bad feeling in my gut. "You're loyal to Starfleet—you are the eyes and ears of the Federation of Planets. Are you not loyal enough to share?"

The lieutenant had returned, this time, with a small black box. That put me on edge even more- for a reason I couldn't quite put my finger on.

I shot eye daggers at the vicious interrogator. "I don't damn well like your tone, son, or what you're implying. I'm telling you everything I can, in good faith. The rest of it is... very personal."

" _That doesn't matter_!" The lieutenant and the commander displayed a blatant violation of personal space around the table. I tried to shrink away.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about!" I nearly gave an uncharacteristic squeak. "I've... told you all that I can! Please believe me—I'm not trying to stop you from doing your job!"

"All that you can." The agent looked at me, and then to the lieutenant. "Does that mean there's something wrong with his memory? Maybe we should jar it."

My gaze flickered in genuine fear of what these two _shockingly_ unorthodox agents had planned.

He promptly grabbed the black box on the table, and tipped it over. 'Well, _captain_ ," he said in a vicious, mocking tone. "Jar any memories?"

The feral skittering and hissing sent me right back to the _Narada_. I saw everything, heard everything, _felt_ everything again. My pulse spiked, and I began hyperventilating. "No... no... no... please. Please... no... not again!"

My thoughts truly ran away from me. I relived in an instant every bit of agony the Romulans inflicted upon me, and reflected on every moment. It would be difficult and very embarrassing, to tell you everything that went on in my mind at that point... but here's a brief, appropriate summary of my mind's bitter, resentful thoughts at this point.

 _You fly the shuttle into the depths of a massive ship- the same one that had just destroyed an entire fleet of Starfleet vessels. You realize for a moment that they could obliterate you with an accidental press of a button. You wonder why, for some reason, that the Romulan commander wants to see you._

 _Isn't it obvious?_

 _Torture is most definitely_ not _a part of the job description._

 _They beat you, and drown you, and brutalize you. They heal you again so that they can continue... Continue tormenting you. Then, in a moment of terrible realization, it dawns upon you that they were just preparing you for what's ahead._

 _They strap you to a table. They strip you down._

 _You wonder a moment if Romulans are known for raping prisoners of war._

 _You'd rather not think about that one._

 _Instead, they cut into you with surgical equipment. They aren't using any sort of sedative._

 _You scream._

 _They laugh._

 _They begin to literally tear the organs out of your body, and reattach them again._

 _You scream louder. It's instinctive, because,_ dammit _, it_ hurts _. It feels like you're going to die._

 _They don't let you get off that easily._

 _They repair your body, and they let you have your own clothes back... You're still trembling from the strain and shock of the whole ordeal as you meet Nero for the second time._

 _You make eye contact. He begins ranting, and you realize that he's crazy. Of course he is._

 _Torture... Getting bugs that are as long as your index finger dropped down your throat... sure._

 _Again, it's not a part of the job description. It happens anyways. Because-_ hell _, why not?_

 _As they do so, you reflect for a moment about how humans truly detest having their mouths touched by someone else without permission— much less_ pried _open under the same conditions. Humans especially don't like being force-fed biological torture mechanisms. But again: why not?_

 _The Romulans pay your gasps and shrieks no mind._

 _Your body spasms involuntarily on the table, but you're still ultimately powerless to stop them._

 _And you realize that that's probably the worst feeling in the whole universe..._

Thinking about the trauma; that's honestly what I think I had against the Section 31 goons—it was as if it were happening all over again. I also think that that's the feeling they were looking for. It did not have the desired effect.

Instead of making me spill, the presence of a Centaurian Slug simply served to send me into a Post-Trauma flashback. I remembered the taste. The smell. The feeling. The pain. The dishonor.

It was completely overwhelming, and I promptly keeled over, gagging on air. I dry heaved for a moment, and still had the terrible sensation of little crustacean legs crawling inside my mouth when I had gotten control back over the reflex.

I sat back up straight, and willed myself not to break again. I began to panic when the grabbed the Centaurian Slug, hand held it not five inches from my face. Even that was a bit... _much_.

...

Imagine his surprise, being called from a legit on-base party by the highest ranking Admiral in Starfleet, being informed that his captain may be in grave danger, and walking in on a torture session. Well... maybe it wasn't legitimate... torture. It was _technically_ an interrogation.

In his defense, the sheer intensity and amount of screaming would have fooled _anyone_.

He had literally run down the corridor to where Marcus had pegged the call to, and burst open the door to find two Starfleet officers hovering over Pike, who was, did he mention, screaming bloody murder? One of the idiots had a second Centaurian Slug, and was currently brandishing it in front of the captain's face.

McCoy hollered to the two Starfleet agents. "Hey! _What the hell do you think you're doing_?"

Perfect to form, the two agents suddenly stood stock-straight, and the Centaurian Slug was deftly slipped back into its cage.

McCoy watched as Pike leaped up, nearly stumbling over his crutches. Despite the captain's sudden silence, McCoy could see him seething and trembling in rage. There was also an underlying feeling that overpowered the rest. Fear. Genuine fear was lit in Pike's gaze. Maybe that was why his anger looked as if it were about to explode. An explosion was better than a break down, by all standards.

McCoy spoke again. "Will someone _please_ tell me what is going on?" He quickly turned to Pike, who had scrambled to be next to him, and the doctor pointed at the captain. "Not you. I don't need you any closer to a panic attack than necessary."

Kirk chose that moment to come barging into the room. "What's going on?" The young blonde looked like he had already had a few celebratory drinks.

McCoy tipped his head back slightly in acknowledgement, then his gaze turned back to the agents, who looked as if they were children caught raiding the cookie jar just before supper. "I think we're about to find out here in a second."

Pike looked dangerously calm—as if he were just stewing in his hostility. In one fluid movement, he pulled his phaser out of its holster, and fired several shots at the little black box. The box was promptly reduced to a pile of ash around a small, hissing Centaurian Slug. The agents only flinched slightly.

Kirk blinked in shock.

"With all... due respect," one of them said. "We... we were just doing our job."

"By sending my captain into a relapse?" McCoy said incredulously.

"Wait—relapse?" Kirk looked at his friend. "What? What were they doing? Is that... Is that what I think it is?"

Neither of the agents responded. Pike walked slowly and cautiously to the table, and with obvious trepidation, allowed the critter to climb on his hand. He looked at it with disdain, and it seemed to share his sentiments as it hissed at him.

McCoy immediately recognized the sheen of sweat that had suddenly formed on Pike's forehead, as well as the pallor that had crept into the captain's face. Pike still remained steadfast, and simply looked at the bug.

Suddenly, Pike's expression became downright _murderous_.

McCoy stared as the Captain dropped the Slug on the floor, smashed it with one of his crutches, and acquainted it with the many intricacies of the potential lethality of the 'Low' phaser setting when utilized repeatedly. The doctor wrinkled his nose as the acrid stench of burning bug wafted through the room.

Pike's expression was still that of unadulterated fury as he glared at the two Starfleet agents.

"You..." he trembled with rage, and McCoy wondered if Pike was going to apply a similar action to the agents as he had to the Slug.

"I will have you know that you aren't going to get _another damned word_ out of me," Pike snarled at them.

With that, he turned and struggled out of the room on his crutches with shocking speed—almost akin to that of storming angrily away.

The two agents seemed to be at a loss for words, before the lieutenant finally spoke to Kirk and McCoy. "Section 31 needs to know _everything_ that he knows. We take what we need to protect our ships in the future."

McCoy's anger was all too present as he hollered, " _Well, you don't have to send a man into a panic attack to do that_! I expect a full report of what happened, and if I don't, I _will_ file a complaint to your superiors as to your disgraceful treatment of a highly decorated Starfleet officer!"

Kirk thought for a moment that McCoy was going to hurl himself at the agents in a violent bout of temper, so he placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, and steered him out the door.

...

I had only made it halfway down the corridor when McCoy and Kirk caught up to me. Figured. I couldn't have even a simple few minutes to _sulk_ to myself.

"Sir! Sir," Kirk called to me as they jogged down the hallway.

I didn't stop until I had reached the docking pad, and had entered a shuttle with Kirk and McCoy, who were still trying to talk to me, but I paid them little mind.

I sank into deep reflection.

The agents would obviously not stop... If nothing else, I had just encouraged them to harass me after I returned. Section 31... that was one I intended to remember.

...

"Welcome, Christopher." Nero was arrogant as _hell_. That was the first trait Nero had that Pike could start hating.

Pike was still blindfolded when he came before the praetor. He was still struggling against his captors, but to no avail. Because of their Vulcanoid strength, the Romulans still held him as if he were a petulant child at school about to receive a lashing from the headmaster. It was rather humiliating; the unevenness of the struggle... but that was inconsequential.

"Well, aren't you going to say anything, Christopher?"

A strong hand gripped his hair close to the roots, and forced him onto his knees. He hissed, but said no words.

"I take that for a no."

The blindfold was ripped off Pike's head so fast that it stung, and it made him slightly dizzy. The hand that had gripped his hair pulled him up to his feet again, and pulled his head back so that he stared levelly at the ceiling.

"I presume you know why you're here, Christopher."

Pike made a feeble attempt at a snide remark. "Don't call me by my given name," he said with a level voice as he stared directly at the ceiling. His head was tilted back so that his neck was fully exposed, and he began to briefly panic that either his spine would break with a debilitating _snap!_ , or his throat would be slit within the next few seconds. Both were equally discouraged, as surviving went.

Nero shook his head. "No, no." He traced Pike's jaw line with a gentle finger. The latter huffed, gritted his teeth, and refrained from starting a fight that he would inevitably lose. "You're here to give me the security codes for Terran defenses."

"Pike, Captain, Ente-" Pike was cut off by an unexpected hand on his face. He heard... _voices_ in his head. Foreign voices. Speaking to him; urging him to try to understand them. They were quiet at first, but they steadily became louder. It soon felt like there was a battle raging inside his head. He shut his eyes tightly in an effort to quiet them, but they only became louder- to the point of deafening. He suddenly heard a voice—a real one—in his ear.

"If you didn't know before, although Romulans split from Vulcan culture many ages ago, we retain many physical and mental features and abilities. And even though we have generally spurned the practice of Mind-Melds, we are still more than capable of performing them."

Pike said nothing, only focused on keeping the wave of voices at bay—denying them access to his thoughts.

"Our minds... are drawing closer."

Voices. Pain. Resistance. Gritted teeth and tears in wide eyes. Loud voices.

Nero's voice sounded distant and sluggish. "Christopher, you will tell me the security codes used to disarm Terran defenses."

Pike remained silent, in voice and mind, as he stared at a nondescript point on the ceiling. The mental barrage continued relentlessly, trying to gain access to his thoughts. It was like trying to keep a flash flood at bay with a pail.

" _You_ will _tell me the security codes used to disarm Terran defenses!_ "

He screamed.

Nero's hand suddenly fell away, and the voices ceased.

Pike blinked momentarily at the blessed silence that overtook his mind, and eased his headache. He slowly realized what he had just experienced—what he could boast of, if he survived this mission. Not many beings could resist a Mind-Meld as an interrogation tactic, very few (if any) of them human.

It was not without its own consequences; his knees buckled under him from the sheer effort of resisting the Meld soon after his realization. It was only because of the strong hands that grabbed his arms that he managed to not fall flat on his face, instead allowing him onto his hands and knees. The room spun around him with a frightening velocity, and he promptly and violently deposited the contents of his stomach onto the walkway. The room slowly stopped whirling around him, and after several seconds, he was able to stand up on shaky legs.

He looked at Nero, who was balancing himself against a railing. "You fight well, Christopher, for a human," the Romulan captain sneered as he stood to face his human counterpart.

Pike continued his silence.

"SPEAK!" Nero moved with blinding speed, and Pike barely registered the smack against his left cheek before he hit the floor with a badly split lip and stars dancing across his vision.

Of course that meant Pike was even more resolved to say no words.

...

I sighed aloud. Why did the human mind have to be so... complex? I knew that it was imperative to share anything that I knew about the encounter with the _Narada_ , but... I just couldn't bring myself to do it. It felt so _private_ ; so... _wrong_ to share it.

"Sir?"

I blinked at Kirk momentarily, before my mind snapped back into the present. "I'm sorry, son. I was... lost in thought. What did you say?"

Kirk nodded slowly. "I asked if there would be much desk work for this whole incident."

I looked down at the floor momentarily, and thought of my brother screaming in pain as flying metal shredded his body. "I'd hope not, son. I'd like to think that people would be given enough time to grieve their losses." I smiled bitterly. "That's probably unrealistic. They'll probably want reports, and forms for the loss of life and property..." I gritted my teeth. "They'll turn them into numbers. Just... statistics of people killed. No meaning... no purpose to their deaths... Just... numbers," I whispered, half to myself.

"Captain," Kirk interrupted my thoughts of Shiloh. "I think it would be a good idea for you to... relax and unwind."

I glanced skeptically at him, my dark thoughts receded further back in my mind. "What did you have in mind? Please not a 'see-who-can-get-drunk-fastest' party. Compared to me, you're a lightweight; I'll still be sober when it's over, son, and I have enough paperwork to fill out without you going out of your minds."

"I wasn't thinking a drinking party, sir." Kirk looked at me sheepishly as he admitted, "I... uh... took the liberty of getting you a—ticket, isn't that what they used to call it?—back to Mojave, California. The hover train is leaving..." he looked up at the chronometer in the public transit transport. "In half an hour."

I blinked, shocked that he actually had the nerve to do something like that. "I don't have anything with me. My things are... I don't know where they are. Probably in my quarters back at HQ by now."

Kirk nodded. "I also took the liberty of having your things brought back to Mojave with you, too. All you need to do is get on the transport, and the rest of it is taken care of."

I was practically bursting with joy inside—I would get to see Vina so much sooner, but I masked it with a questioning glance at Kirk. "I feel like you're intruding into my personal life quite a bit."

"Well, sir," Kirk said, scratching the back of his neck. "I guess that you're right on that one, I'm sorry, but you needed the time to sort things out-"

I gave a slight smile. "No. Don't apologize. Thank you..." I willed my face to return to a neutral expression. "I... guess that I... uh... have some things to 'sort out' then, don't I?"

Kirk nodded. "Yes, sir. I hope to see you back well-rested... and an Admiral."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Admirals... promotions... Yada, yada, yada."

 ** _To be Continued..._**


	7. Chapter 7

It hadn't taken long for me to get back to Mojave. We had arrived at the hover train, and it took about two hours to get to my hometown in the desert.

There's one thing, and one thing only that you need to know about Mojave and a large part of my personality will make sense to you. The place _wasn't_ a city. Even with the 22nd century sprawling growth of Los Angeles for fifteen miles in every direction, Mojave maintained its small-town feel.

I always liked it that way. I loved the quietness that allowed for reflection, as well as the open land for raising horses and the unfiltered, dusty air. Mojave was still that small, quiet town by the similarly named desert on the lonely through road (the highway had been replaced by the train some years ago). I loved every aspect of it. It was a good place to slow down and recover.

Mojave had all of the modern accommodations, don't get me wrong, but things felt so much more _genuine_ there. Synthetically produced supplies were no substitute in the minds of many there. People there were easygoing; they liked their sleepy little town, and had many qualms about allowing any foreign machines into their lives.

By extension, people there were much more inclined to avoid replicator food in favor of homegrown sustenance. I couldn't very well avoid replicator food when I was on-duty, much less when I was deployed, but I counted myself among the number of replicator-boycotters when I was at home.

At no other time does homegrown food taste so good than when you come home to it after your first four-year exploration deployment, trust me.

So I stepped (… Fine: hobbled) off the lit, air-conditioned train, and onto the boarding platform. A wave of night desert air rushed into my face. I reveled in the experience. It was so refreshing to be away from artificially filtered air, and to smell the sagebrush and creosote bushes... I hadn't smelled a good desert rain in what felt like _ages_. A cool breeze ran invisible fingers through my hair, unsettling it from its combed form. I smiled. The desert was a wonderful place.

I looked around at the platform. There was no one else there, because the train was only stopping briefly on its way from Francisco to LA. I slowly walked to the gate- the old train station looked like it hadn't changed in two hundred years, it was _that_ antique. I think that's why I loved the old place.

We lived about ten or eleven miles away from the train station, away from the town. It didn't seem like much, but the rail was pretty quiet, thanks to the magnets. So, we were far enough away to seem like the middle of the desert at our quiet little ranch. It still made getting there a bit of a challenge.

I adjusted the care-package rucksack that Jim and Leonard had bestowed upon me at the outset of the train trip. I had stuffed my yellow uniform into it, because Vina couldn't stand seeing me in my work clothes at home. The rucksack also contained several small items like several small bars of chocolate, a bottle of aspirin tablets, a pack of cigarettes, a small bottle of aftershave, and a toothbrush. I know—it was absolutely inspired. By WW2 Red Cross Prisoner of War bundles. Figures.

I looked to the train's Teleportation pad. I smirked. It was a _teleportation_ pad, mind you, not a _transporter_ pad. Technically, because it was outdated technology, you could only use it if you had a second teleportation pad, and even that was highly in doubt that anything would ever make it to the other side, much less make to the other side _whole_.

I looked out beyond the roof of the station. There was a single flickering streetlamp on the other side—it was the only source of light available in the immediate area, and had been for the past who-knew-how-long. Beyond it, the town lights produced a faint glow; thankfully not enough to pollute the beautiful, starry sky. I decided to walk around awhile before striking out for the ranch. The night was pleasant enough, and even without the all the streetlights working, I knew the roads around here like the back of my hand.

I started down the ramp. As soon as I stepped about halfway across the dusty road, I heard a "Chris!"

A truck caught my eye as it drove up. It was a genuine truck with wheels and all—an antique Chevrolet that was still fully in use. It wasn't entirely uncommon to see that sort of thing here. The window on the driver's side was rolled down, and the older man had his head and arm out the window as he drove down the road.

"Roger?" I grinned to see one of my best friends pulling up beside me in a blue 1997 Chevy 'S-10'. I gave a breathy laugh. " What- what are you doing here?"

He came to a stop right in front of me. "I could ask you the same thing, kid. What are you doing with those?" he pointed to the crutches, as well as the braces that still showed through my slacks.

"Uh... Mission... went bad. Injured." I nodded solemnly.

Roger made a slight face, as if he were skeptical of my bare-bones explanation. I silently cursed myself. When I usually came home, I was more talkative than at any other time in my life.

"You want a ride?" Roger patted the door of his truck, and the sound of the thin leather glove hitting the metal was enough to make me smile.

"Sure. I'll take a ride." I hobbled around the back of the truck. When I got to the other side, Roger had already popped the door open, so all I had to do was stick my crutches into the truck, and haul myself up and into the cab—it was the equivalent of doing a chin-up. I had done a lot of those since my legs stopped working, so that part was relatively easy. The braces responded to the shift in weight, and immediately folded into a sitting position (which was _very_ handy, by the way).

Within a few seconds, I had gotten myself situated, and closed the door. I glanced at Roger. "Stuff is harder these days," I said noncommittally as I fastened the safety harness across my chest.

"I can imagine, kid." Roger's deep, scratchy voice rasped. He began driving towards my house. "Care to talk about it?" His hazel eyes bored into me.

I was suddenly acutely aware of the scar on the back of my head and neck. David had told me, in one of our many injury-discussing talks, that the scar was only slightly darker than the rest of my skin, and that if I grew my hair out a little more, it would be virtually invisible. I had immediately started doing just that. Primarily because I wanted to hide the scar, but also... with the stinging sensation pressure could cause, I didn't want _anything_ sharp back there, ever again. Especially not a razor.

"No," I snapped. Roger's skeptical face only increased in intensity. More calmly, I said, "No, I don't want to talk about it."

Roger simply nodded, and held up his right hand—the one that I didn't realize was bandaged half to death. I stared at it blankly for a moment before he explained, "Got caught in a chipper the other day."

I cringed. "Aw, _Roger_!"

He gave a half-cackle of a old man's laugh, and punched me lightly in the arm with the bandaged hand. "Thought you'd like that!"

I stared at the bandage incredulously. "How do you still _have_ your hand?!"

"I pulled it out—once Oakley Holt got around to turnin' the machine off, that is."

"Bad?"

Roger smiled as he replied, "Like hamburger."

I cringed again, and looked away, my stomach suddenly unhappy with me. Although I still hadn't eaten, I felt the urge to put my head out the window, for obvious reasons. "I did _not_ need to know _that_."

Roger laughed again. "Nothing a bone knitter and a few shots of analgesic wouldn't fix."

I looked back at him. He _had_ seemed overly happy. "You're driving drugged, then... How do you even keep your license to drive this old junker?" I rapped my knuckles gently against the glass window.

He laughed. "I'm a doctor, kid. An old country doctor, at that. I know things. Thresholds, and how much my system can handle before I actually am driving impaired."

I shook my head. "Of course. I made friends with the only doctor in this one-horse town."

"You better believe it, son. I've been curing people since before you were born." He gave me a broad smile through his moustache.

His expression darkened as we turned onto the unlit back road that led to the ranch. "I remember delivering you. I remember the first time you came back."

"After Elysium."

"Yep. I remember you being all closed off... kinda like this."

It was my turn to make a face. "Roger. Give me a break; I'd just watched my parents die. I'd just saved a colony. I deserved a bit of down-time."

Roger looked back at me as we continued down the road out of the range of uniformly placed streetlamps. "You needed to talk it out then. You need to now."

"No, I don't, Roger," I half-hissed. "This is very different from Elysium. This is worse, and for once, don't meddle in it, please?"

"I'm both your doctor, and your friend. I will meddle as I see fit."

"Arrgh!" I looked up to the roof of the cab. "You are _absolutely insufferable_!"

"It matters." He allowed the words to hang in the air a moment before continuing. "If I wasn't insufferable, then you'd never tell me anything."

I glared at him. "That last bit sounds like a good idea."

Roger rubbed his forehead with his bandaged hand.

"Roger, it's private, and something that... isn't good to share."

"Well, you're gonna have to work it out sometime," Roger harrumphed. "If you're not gonna talk to me, at least talk to your brother about it."

I nearly cringed as he mentioned my brother.

Roger blinked a moment, before it evidently dawned on him that Shiloh was not present. "Speaking of which, where is Shiloh? We haven't heard anything from either of you, and I have a few words for him about leaving his child here with his sister-in-law while he went off to have space adventures."

 _Space Adventures. That's what he thinks we do_ , I thought bitterly. My thoughts drifted back to Shiloh's last communiqué. I said nothing to Roger.

"I mean, we haven't seen either of you in person in... two months for you, one for him. You haven't called. He hasn't called." He looked at me seriously, seemingly unaware of my expression.

"It's not good for a boy like Nolan to be without his papa for that long." Roger suddenly seemed to realize my contemplative silence. "Nolan... uh... he's sixteen now- I'm sure you don't get much home news in your line of work—but he's uh... been caring for the horses. He puts... everything into caring for them—I mean, that's all he seems to do now. He really likes Tango Jr., and I can't blame him. You bred a good horse... I just haven't been able to get back to the ranch in a few days."

I averted my eyes. I didn't think that I could bear the idea of my horses being taken care of by my nephew. In retrospect, part of it was jealously, the other part sympathy. Or empathy, more properly.

Nolan's mother—Shiloh's wife, Adeline—died in childbirth. Shiloh had done his best to care for the boy while deployed, but after a few close calls in combat situations, he had decided that Nolan was much safer back in Mojave. So Shiloh visited every few months as his work allowed, and Nolan stayed with Vina, Charlie and Hobelia, or Roger.

Nolan seemed to like growing up in Mojave, but the whole thing wasn't much of a set-up, honestly. For example, there were only a few rare times when both Shiloh and I could arrange the earth shore leave to coincide, so that we could all be a family—a genuine, semi-normal family.

I drew my lips in briefly as I contemplated the situation. Nolan didn't know that his father was dead and his uncle was crippled. All he had were the horses at the ranch... The similarities between what my childhood was and what his would become were... striking, to say the least.

"Roger," I began. "I don't... I don't know what to do."

"What do you mean?"

"Roger... Shiloh's gone."

The 1997 Chevy stopped short, and I was glad for a moment that these things had safety harnesses. Then I snapped back into my seat, and I remembered the glory of inertial dampeners.

"What do you mean, Shiloh is gone?" Roger shifted in his seat to look at me fully.

I rubbed the back of my suddenly-sore neck, being careful to avoid the scar. I looked at him in a sideways glance. "Just what I said. Shiloh is gone." Tears welled in my eyes, and my brother's agonized scream played on 'repeat' in my mind.

Roger blinked. "Gone as in..."

"Gone as in, _gone_ , Roger," I shouted. "As in... permanently. As in... no more 'space adventures'," I spat. Roger averted his gaze momentarily, apparently realizing his mistake.

I stared at my friend. "He's gone, Roger. His ship was destroyed," I smacked the side of my leg brace with my crutch. "By the same man who did this to me."

Roger looked at me with an expression I was entirely unable to read. "I... don't know what I can say... I know it sounds cliché, but... I'm sorry for your loss."

I tried to smile, and failed spectacularly. "You knew Shiloh, so it means something..." I sighed, and looked out of the passenger's side window at the silent desert. "I just... I always thought that... we'd be together when one of us did die." I gnawed on my lip. "I didn't want him to die alone, with strangers."

Roger shook his head and began to slowly drive again. "You don't always get what you want, or think you deserve."

A tear traced down my cheek. " _But why?_ Why did it have to be him? I... I should have been on the _Odyssey_. Why... why should I have survived when my brother—my baby brother—died?"

Roger shook his head again. "We don't know everything, Chris. We probably won't ever know _everything_. Some types of knowledge are best left alone. We ain't God, you know."

"What if it feels like I should be? Roger, it feels like everything is crashing back down around me. It feels hopeless... Shiloh isn't coming back." I didn't let Roger say another word. "We went to Vulcan to give aid, but... Nero," I spat the name with barely concealed malice. "Nero killed them. Killed them all. The entire fleet, except the _Enterprise_. He just... obliterated it. There were no survivors, because they got sucked into a black hole when Vulcan was destroyed. I was captured, and tortured for information. I broke, Roger, I _broke_...and it allowed Nero to attack Earth. He put a big-ass hole in the Bay hundreds of people were injured or killed... because of _me_. I've been recovering from that torture for the past two weeks. I've lost the use of my legs because of a..." I tried to maintain composure. "Because they forced a torture device down my throat." I paused a moment, and silence prevailed. "And I told Charlie about Shiloh. We... uh... we haven't spoken since he told me to go to hell. But... Roger, Shiloh is gone, and I can't do anything about it."

Roger allowed the silence to hang heavy in the air for several moments.

"How do I even face Nolan? He never knew his mother. Losing his father... would kill his spirit. I can't _do_ that to him." I bit my lip lightly as I realized the pain meds were beginning to wear off. "And I'm still dealing with this." I smacked the leg brace with my crutch. "I have enough problems of my own... Roger, what do I do?"

He let my question sit for awhile- at least a minute.

"You really want to know what I think?"

I nodded slowly. "I need to know what to do about this. I feel so... _overwhelmed_ with everything that's been hap-"

"You're an arrogant, selfish idiot."

I blinked. Twice. My brow furrowed. "Pardon?"

"You heard me right, Christopher Richard Pike."

I nearly cringed as he addressed me by my full name.

"You're arrogant. You think that you're so overly important that you were responsible for the whole incident."

"I was-"

"You _were_?" He gave me the 'incredulous' face—the one that I was well-accustomed to giving first-year cadets for shenaniganery that ended badly. " _Really_? Because it sounds to me like you're making a bigger deal of this than you should."

I suddenly bounced back from my shock at his first remark, and began defending myself. "How _dare_ you! How _the hell_ do you expect _anyone_ to react, Roger?! Overreacting... _Hundreds_ of Starfleet cadets died— _billions_ of Vulcan civilians died!"

"And of course that's got to be _your_ fault? If this ship of Nero's was so powerful that he could destroy a _fleet_ of the best Federation ships, and obliterate a _planet_ , then there's not much you, _one person_ , could have done to stop it."

I blinked. He had a valid point. "I am the _captain of a starship_ ," I said, my voice dangerously level. "The lives of everyone involved depend on me, and my decisions. You know that, or, at least, you _should_ , " I half-spat.

"Oh, don't give me _that_ line again," Roger quickly volleyed back. "That's a line cooked up by Starfleet to keep its captains in check. If it's true, then you 'n those cadets might as well commit suicide _now_ , because you're _all_ at fault for the destruction of that fleet and Vulcan. _Everyone_ has those 'could have-should have-didn't' moments; you can't blame yourself for not being God. Because you _aren't_. Don't try to be."

We turned onto an unlit dirt road, and Roger continued. "If you do, you'll kill yourself worrying about every way you could have done something better, when in reality, there was only one way that it did happen. There's only one thing we can do from the past—learn from it. If we don't make mistakes, we don't learn. If we don't learn from those mistakes... then those who die will indeed die in vain."

"What about the rest of it," I pressed. "Selfish idiot? Where did you get that?"

"You're selfish, because you're thinking about how _you_ failed. How _you_ were the one who suffered. _You_ were the key element of the mission, and it was because of _you_ that everyone died. How _you_ can't cope with _your_ injuries. How _your_ father won't speak to _you_ after being informed that his youngest son is dead. How _you'll_ tell Nolan that Shiloh was killed in the battle... Son, that is one of the most pathetic things—if not _the_ most pathetic thing I've heard in my life!"

I looked down somewhat sheepishly. "When you say it that way..." He didn't let me continue.

"What about other people who feel guilty for deaths?"

My mind flitted to a brief conversation with Ensign Pavel Chekov on the Enterprise—how he was condemning himself for the death of Spock's mother.

"What about the people who died fighting—or even the ones who suffered for a cause? That should be thereabouts the whole _Enterprise_."

A list of people ran through my mind, not the least of which was Dr. Puri.

"That ship sounds like it was extremely powerful; it wouldn't have mattered if you gave him the codes or not, because he could just smash though the perimeter, anyways." He looked at me, and my blank face must have tipped him off to elaborate. " _He was playing you, son_. He _sounds_ like he was a screwball; why wouldn't he do something like that? Play you?"

"What difference does that make?"

Roger stared at me incredulously. "Makes a _big_ difference, son. He's _trying_ to get you all riled up. From what I'm getting out of you, it's working pretty well."

I bit my lip, and simply hunkered down in my seat. No, it was not pouting. It was thinking deeply.

Silence prevailed after that. The night air had cooled considerably by this time—easily into the teens Celsius. We drove along the unpaved road, and the only sound was the wheels on the dirt, and the chirp of crickets.

We eventually reached our destination.

I was hit with an unreasonable homesickness for the house as soon as I saw the old wooden banner up above the entrance to the ranch, and the lone lantern that illuminated the black print, "Pike-Hawkwood Ranch". It really looked quite cliché as ranch entrances go- hanging wood banner, and wooden scaffolding and fences, complete with cow guard and metal gate.

In no time at all, we were parked on the concrete slab where Roger kept his truck when he was at the ranch. I opened the door, and managed to get out without falling on my face. Barely. I stumbled around for a moment as the braces stretched themselves out again, and I tried to remember how to properly exit a vehicle when you have no knees. It's just as difficult as it sounds.

We slowly walked to the door, and Roger ushered me into the hallway leading to the kitchen. I looked towards the 'Mud Deck', as we called it, and realized how much I missed working with my horses.

We entered the kitchen, and I deeply inhaled, remembering the smells of home. I heard footsteps coming from the hallway leading to the bedroom.

I glanced at Roger, and he beamed before leaving back the way he came.

"Nolan?" Vina's worried voice called from the hallway. "Do you realize how long you've been gone? Where have you—" She walked out of the hallway, and into the living room, and we made eye contact across the kitchen island. "Been..."

She moved slowly to the doorway, all the while keeping her gaze fixed on me from across the room, as if she was worried I would disappear if she didn't.

We were finally standing on either side of the kitchen.

"Christopher?"

"H-hi, honey," I stammered. She was even more beautiful than I remembered her being two months ago, or even on the PADD.

She looked me over silently. A whole plethora of emotions washed over her face, not the slightest of which was realization about the crutches.

"I... uh..." I gave single breathy laugh and a smile. "I'm home."

She ran to me, and I can say with the utmost confidence that it was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Tears streamed down her face as we embraced. "Oh, Christopher, I thought you were—they told me you were dead!"

"I'm here now, and I'm OK. It's all good." I dipped my head, and her forehead touched mine. Her hands were draped over my shoulders, and I don't think I realized how much I had missed her until that moment.

"Oh, Christopher," she sobbed. "I've missed you so much. I didn't hear anything about you for weeks; they told me you'd died! I-"

By this time, I had unhooked my right arm from its crutch, and drew my hand up to her face. I lifted her chin, and smiled at her. "I'm OK." Our lips met, and I ran my hand gently through her hair.

For a single blessed moment, I was home with my wife and all was fine and well in the universe.

"It's all fine," I quietly reassured her as we drew away. "We're gonna be OK. I promise you, we're going to be just fine. Everything's all good now." So my mind was caught up in the moment. Besides that, it had been _quite_ a kiss (and no, I am not going to recount it for you).

"Why didn't they tell me?" She leaned her head gently on my chest, and continued to cry. "Why? They told me you'd been tortured for information and killed, and they told me that Shiloh... Chris, I thought you were dead..."

I leaned my head so that my chin rested on her head, and drew her hand up and interlacing our fingers. "I was hurt pretty bad, but I didn't die. I may have gotten lost in the paperwork... There were a lot of people who did die." I continued to stroke her head.

I hated what I was about to do next... but I had to break our blissful moment of being reunited. "Vina... I have to tell Nolan that Shiloh... didn't make it." I whispered to her, not looking down. "Where is he?"

Vina shuddered against me. She began to cry again. "Oh, Christopher, I don't know how Nolan found out, but he found out."

I blinked, and straightened up. "What do you mean—found out?"

"Christopher, he knows about Shiloh. He knows—I don't know how, but he knows. He took a rucksack, and Tango Jr., and he just up and ran away! He hasn't been back in three days!... I told Roger, and he's been looking, but... we just can't find him!"

I nodded, trying to register everything. My brother... my nephew... If I had been attentive, I would have also seen something else; at the time, it didn't even show up on the radar. Something else dawned on me, and my gaze flickered to the door as I slipped my right arm back into its crutch. "Have some food ready when I get back?" I began walking towards the door.

Vina nodded, and walked to the refrigerator (yes- they still existed). "Wait-where are you going?"

I looked back at her momentarily before striding out the door. "To test a theory."

 ** _To be Continued..._**


	8. Chapter 8

It was a very stupid theory, to be honest, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, I realized on my way to the stables that I couldn't actually walk, much less ride. Secondly, it was dark. Thirdly, the desert was _big_.

Even though Nolan was only sixteen, he was still a horse rider—and one almost on par with me. Shiloh and I took him out across the desert whenever we could, sometimes making huge loops over the terrain lasting several weeks of riding, when we could get it. So, Nolan was an experienced rider, and he had several days' head start.

I still had to try. I entered the stable, with a bit of effort, and plopped the rucksack my friends had given me down on the hay-strewn floor. I took a moment to inhale, and smell the horses. I had missed my horses while out there in space.

I quickly grabbed a different rucksack off a hook on the wall—one filled with water and non-perishable food. I quickly made my way over to a bench, and set my leg braces into a sitting position. I slowly took them off, setting them against the wall.

I tried to stand up on my own, and again failed spectacularly. I crashed to the floor, instead. I rolled onto my stomach, and propped myself up on my arms.

"Come on! _Come on_ ," I shouted as I willed my legs to function. "Work! The nerves are fine; they always were! It's all in my head!" I was all Nolan had left. I wasn't giving up on him. I couldn't. But whether I could go out relied solely on... my useless legs. "The nerves weren't damaged! So work! Move! _Move, dammit, move_!" Nothing.

I gasped for air. No matter how much I tried, my legs just wouldn't respond. It felt like my legs were chained up, and I couldn't free them no matter how much I struggled. I had to be able to do... something. Nolan had been out in the desert for days, and I couldn't do anything.

I rolled back over onto my back. Nothing. I had gotten nowhere. My legs were still as useless as they were when this first happened—as they would always be.

The pain in my shoulder blades and neck was worse than it normally was. Although, that may have been a result of me coming off my pain meds. I was stuck. I was stuck, in pain, and my sixteen-year-old nephew was out in the desert alone grieving his dead father. It was a damned-fantastic combination.

I gritted my teeth and tried to move back up to the bench. I didn't quite make it.

A bolt of agony shot down my whole body, shattering the blissful numbness I had previously enjoyed. It brought me back down to the floor in a flurry of spasms and screams. I gulped the air, and tried to stay conscious. I reached upwards, grasping the bench and pulling myself into a kneeling position. I continued to gasp for air, trying to get at least my breathing under control. The pain speared up and down my legs just as bad as it had been after the surgery, radiating up and down my body—all the way up to my shoulder blades.

That's when it hit me. Kneeling. Something I was thought incapable of doing. Yet, there I was, kneeling over a bench as I fought the urge to black out.

I gritted my teeth against the feeling, and pulled myself to my feet. The pain was frighteningly intense by this time.

I took a step. Pain shot through my entire body as soon as my foot hit the floor, and I stumbled to the ground.

I crawled to the rucksack my friends had given me, and in a desperate attempt to ease the pain, swallowed several of the aspirin pills with water. In all reality, anything shy of the most potent analgesics wouldn't have done much, but in my state, I'll admit that I wasn't exactly thinking _clearly_.

The fire in my legs seemed to subside slightly (I think I was beginning to get accustomed to it again), and I hauled myself up again. I grabbed a saddle and blanket, and staggered on unsteady legs across the stable.

There was quite a bit of welcoming (albeit concerned) neighs and whinnies (horses are more intuitive than people, I swear), but I was, at the moment, concerned only with staying awake.

"Well, Algernon," I said as I scrambled to the nearest stall. "Looks like you and I are going for a ride."

For a bit of background, my original horse was Tango—the very first colt that I named, and the only one I'd been able to keep when I left Elysium with Charlie. Over time, my love for Tango had expanded to all the horses on my parents' ranch. My brother and I kept the horses for some eight years before the beckon of space called me away yet again. Both Shiloh and I still went home to help our parents on the farm when we could, but a lot of it fell to Roger, Nolan, my parents, and Vina—a very strange combination of people, indeed.

Algernon was Tango's colt, from some twenty years ago. He was the first one that I had been able to deliver when I was home on shore leave. There's a special beauty about delivering a foal—there's a beauty and a wonder at the mere fact of life, as well as the possessive feelings you will keep towards that horse until you die. I was able to deliver three other foals over the many times that I was home (the twin thoroughbreds Wyatt and Ophelia, and the Arabian beauty Max), but Tango and Algernon were special, and they always would be; just like Tango Jr. would be to Nolan. Tango Jr. was Algernon's second colt—but the first one that Nolan would deliver and name.

I saddled Algernon, and heaved myself upwards onto the saddle. It felt like ages since I'd been able to ride. I grabbed the lantern I'd been using, and clipped it to the saddle.

Needles of discomfort shot up and down my legs, as I edged Algernon forward, unlocking the spring-controlled forward gate with a pull of a dangling cord. The gate swung open, and we started off. I gave a pained smile as Algernon gave a concerned whinny.

"You know what's going on, don't you, old man?" I patted his neck, and he neighed. "Let's go find them."

...

In little time, we were practically flying. His hoof-beats were like music to my ears as they hit the powdery dirt. His chest sounded like an engine as it converted the air into pure velocity.

Horses are beautiful, powerful things. For awhile, it felt like I was the one who couldn't keep up. The agony that McCoy had predicted would come if and when I recovered movement in my legs had materialized. It made it difficult to stay on my mount as he thundered across the desert. Algernon seemed to know that I was in pain (horses are more intuitive than people, I swear), and I could tell that he strove to make his movements as fluid as possible.

While he compensated for what I couldn't, I reflected on the situation. I was in immense pain, without any sort of medication, looking for a boy who had run off three days ago and likely did not want to be found. Things... weren't in my favor, to say the least. In fact, it was more likely that I would get lost than that I would find him.

Then I questioned my sanity. Damned if I let the one thing left of my brother die here in the desert.

I looked around, trying to see my destination in the distance. There was a rock formation not far from here—a series of caves, cliffs, and crevasses in a mesa-like topography. It was practically our own private hide-out. Shiloh and I had gone up there numerous times when we were kids, and Nolan had been there... at least thrice.

Admittedly, it was only a few hours ride from the house, but it was the only shelter for... quite a long ways. I figured that Nolan might have at least gone there first, before moving on the next day. Maybe I could find a trail to follow.

It didn't take long for us to reach the base of the mesa. I checked the chronometer in the rucksack. It read _00:17_ in big red digits. I knew that I had gotten back sometime between twenty-one and twenty-two hundred, but that still left me with over two hours of riding.

I groaned as intense pain flared from my ankles to my midsection. I suddenly saw the sky as my boots slipped out of the stirrups and I fell off Algernon. I crashed unceremoniously to the dirt, hitting my shoulder awkwardly, and rolling a foot or two. I crawled on my hands and knees until I ended up leaning against a large sandstone rock, panting as I struggled to control the pain—or even stay _conscious_. I didn't exactly succeed.

...

I woke up to find a large face staring at me from directly above. I gave a slight start, shocked firstly that I had fallen unconscious, and secondly that Algernon had stayed there with me instead of wandering off. I slowly blinked, and glanced at the chronometer. I had lost about two hours just snoozing there. Admittedly—I had passed out from the pain and the stress, but still. Two hours was a long time when you're trying to find somebody in the desert.

Suddenly, I heard a neigh—and not Algernon. This neigh was higher—much higher—than Algernon. I looked out into the distance, and held the dying lantern up. "Tango," I called. Sure enough, the young thoroughbred trotted out from the rocks above.

I tried to scrabble to my feet, but only made it to a crawling position. "Tango Junior! Thank heaven—Where's Nolan?"

The younger horse neighed in concern, and set off. I stood, and Algernon allowed me to haul myself onto the saddle. He obviously knew to follow his own colt up the mesa. I didn't even need to direct him as we climbed in elevation. The ride up the mesa was silent, except for the charming sounds of the desert…. Slightly less charming when one considered the situation, but still.

We soon reached a flat area where Tango Jr. just began walking in circles. I looked around—my lantern was going to go out if I didn't put another fuel cartridge in it. We were at the place I would have been if I hadn't passed out two hours ago—the campsite from years ago.

I slowly lowered myself off the saddle. Pain flared in my legs, and I ended up on all fours, again. " _Nolan_ ," I hollered. "Can you hear me? Where are you?"

I suddenly heard a low groan coming from the left... far enough away to be barely audible. "Nolan?"

I scrabbled over to where I heard the voice, but I stopped short as I realized there was a crevasse in the rock. The crevasse was easily a few meters across- far too long for me to attempt to cross it. That wasn't even counting the fact that my legs didn't work. I looked directly down, and could just barely make out a vaguely human-shaped outline in the murky gloom. " _NOLAN_!"

The shape at the bottom of the crevasse was still motionless, and for a moment, I wondered if the sound I heard was just my imagination. Still, I had to at least investigate.

I managed to get back up on my feet, and walked back to Algernon. There were several coils of rope in his saddle bag—enough to get down to the bottom of the crevasse. I secured one end of the rope around Tango's saddle, and Algernon's, and the other end around in a harness-like rope around my waist. I inserted another fuel cartridge into the lantern, and looped it into the rope.

"Alright, Algernon- Tango, when I say 'Forward', you haul me back up, OK?" I patted both of them as they gave whinnies of approval. I still to this day have no idea how they knew to obey a command like that without someone else there—I just know that they did, and I am still to this day grateful.

I crawled to the edge of the crevasse, and did my best to find ledges in the rock to lower myself down into the gloom. The rock face wasn't exactly sheer, which made it slightly easier to climb down, but it was steep enough to get a leg broken if you were wandering around and not paying attention and fell in.

I finally made it down to the bottom. In my condition, I don't know how I did it. I'm still sure that I was nearing insanity and unconsciousness, either from the surrealism of the situation, or the just the pain. It was probably a mix of both.

I scrambled over to the shape, and sure enough—Nolan. The boy had managed to get himself wedged between two rocks, and was slumped forward. I let out a sigh of relief, and then quickly caught myself. This was no situation to feel even slightly relieved at- especially considering the state he was in. I almost thought he was dead, with his lack of response to me, and the dried blood that was in his blonde hair. I quickly took a pulse, holding my breath and wondering if I would find nothing.

I gave a deep sigh of relief as I found a pulse. It was strong (enough), and I tried to wake Nolan.

He just groaned in response.

"Nolan- I'm so glad I found you... I'm gonna get you out of here, OK?"

Steely grey-blue eyes suddenly flashed open to meet mine. He groaned again. I heard a barely audible mumble of, "I don't wanna go back."

I blinked momentarily. Not... want to go back? I bit my lip. "You are coming back to the ranch with me, whether you like it or not…. How did you manage to get down here?"

His rapid, assured response took me a bit off-guard. "I jumped. I thought that the hit to my head would have done it, but..." He looked upwards, his eyes glazed over. "I've been here for two days."

I simply blinked. Nolan's response and the serenity with which he had said it shocked me, to say the least.

Nolan's head lolled to the side tiredly. "Dad... won't be there... I don't wanna go back. Just leave me here to die... I don't wanna go back... if he isn't there." He closed his eyes again, and I promptly slapped my nephew. His eyes snapped open and were wide with grief and shock as they met mine. Tears were in his eyes, and I was sure that mine were soon to follow.

I struggled to keep my composure as I attempted to be relieved to see him, and angry simultaneously. I didn't know how that worked, either. It was probably something... parental. I'd figure it out as I went while being Nolan's... caretaker. I mean—no one can really replace a _parent_ , and the closest thing I'd ever had to a child of my own was Nolan, and, by some strange extension, James Tiberius Kirk.

"You are _not_ staying here! You are _not_ going to die, because I am _not_ going to allow it!" I looped the rope around Nolan's waist, and tied it in a knot so that it wouldn't strangle him. "Shiloh wouldn't tolerate something like this out of you, would he?" I began to try to pry the rocks away from his lower torso, wincing as I felt the pain in _my_ lower legs flare up again. "What _do_ you think your father would say if he saw you like this, pulling a stunt like you just did?!"

Nolan stared at me blankly before he hung his head again, with a bitter smile at the memory. "He'd call me a 'damned idiot'. Then he'd give me a solid slap upside the head."

My voice was thick with the tears that I was sure _weren't_ flowing down my face in the low light of the lantern. "He'd give you the solid thrashing you deserve, mister! If I wasn't worried about your sorry neck, I'd smack you until you didn't know what year it was!"

Nolan gave another bitter smile, and then a cry as I finally pried his mangled body loose from the rocks. His eyes were bulging as he gasped for air. I took his pulse again. It was suddenly much more rapid, and much weaker.

"Forward," I hollered to the horses above. "Forward, boys! Bring us home!" I heard the horses neigh and whinny as they began walking away from the ledge, foot by foot bringing us closer to the suddenly starless sky. Again, I reiterate that I have no idea how they knew to obey my command at least without someone else there, but they did somehow.

We were soon up on the ledge, and I was struggling to get the ropes off of Nolan, and myself. My fingers were trembling, and I fumbled through the knots. Nolan was breathing heavily, and it looked like he was about to go into shock. I finally loosened the last of the knots, and threw the ropes away from us. I simply laid there, gasping and trying to keep the pain in my legs manageable. The horses simply stood in place, waiting for my next order. The silence didn't last long.

A flash of light and a thunderous boom startled me back into reality, and spooked both of our horses. They bolted down the path in a near gallop and I could do nothing but watch. I promptly sneezed as they flew off down the trail, leaving dust in their wake.

We were going to be stuck here for who-knew-how long. I had a rucksack filled with some supplies and a canteen of water, but that wasn't going to last us long. A droplet splashed down on my head. It was soon joined by hundreds of others.

I began to panic as pain radiated down my legs... We'd have to find shelter here, and I was pretty sure that Nolan wouldn't be moving under his own power. Large raindrops mixed with the tears that streamed down my face as I stared up at the sky. A sudden wave of hopelessness washed over me. No horses to get back… no way to help my nephew... no way for us to survive out here until they could find us again.

Then my resolve kicked back in again. Figured. Damned resolve always did come to the rescue when I thought I was gonna die. Rest in Peace? Nah. We could survive this—just survive the remaining... three hours until sunrise, and we're all good. Not that it mattered that we had no way to get back to town. I sighed.

 _And these same mutterings of ambition and perseverance from a man struck with heat exhaustion and insanity were the ones that got you into the captain's chair in the first place. I just can't believe you're still alive,_ my mind 'tsk'ed sarcastically at me.

 _Well, it's not as if I had any better plans,_ I spat. _And I didn't hear you giving any bright ideas, either, mister._

The onslaught of strange and conversationally confrontational thoughts eventually ceased. My mouth was wide in a gasp for air as I looked around for some sort of shelter. I hung the lantern's strap around my neck to shelter it from the rain- a wet lantern cartridge was no better than no lantern at all. Looking back, I'm not sure it did any good. We were both sopping wet, and the deluge showed no signs of stopping.

My vision swam as I hauled Nolan back away from the ledge, and into an alcove in the sandstone. I stumbled several times along the way, and was practically covered in pale mud by the time I had managed to get us both into the shelter. The cavern in the rock was elevated slightly from the dirt—enough to keep the sandy floor at least sort of dry. I pulled him to the very back, and laid him down perpendicular to the wall.

An image flashed in my mind, and I was suddenly reminded of the significance of this hollow in the rock.

...

"Alright, this should be a good place to park it." Christopher slowly dismounted his horse, Tango, and walked around the sandy clearing. "Good access to the top for fishing. Access to water—" He pointed to a small freshwater stream that trickled down through the rocks. "Good place to throw pebbles," He smirked at he motioned to a nearby crevasse some ten or twelve feet wide, and twenty or thirty feet deep.

Christopher glanced slightly at the setting sun that threw beautiful shadows across the desert landscape and sighed happily. This was the life.

"I dunno, Chris, I think we should set camp up off the cliff," Shiloh commented, smirking and pointing up towards the sheer face of sandstone.

"We should have brought Pegasi." Seventeen-year-old Christopher laughed as he patted Tango.

"Now why didn't you think of that, Chris? You could have made a fortune breeding a Pegasus or two." Shiloh dismounted his horse, Lyons, and hauled a rucksack off of the saddle.

"And the unicorns," Chris said as he strode around the clearing, kicking dirt and rocks into smaller cracks in the sandstone to alert any other little critters who might try to share the camp. "Can't forget the unicorns, either."

The nine-year-old pulled a belt with a phaser holster around his waist.

Chris looked back from flashing a light down a mysterious little hole that seemed to be uninhabited. "Shiloh, you aren't going to need that."

"You never know," the younger boy squeaked. A lock of thick ebony hair fell into his eyes, and he promptly brushed it away. "We could run into coyotes or something."

Chris nearly laughed at the way that his little brother drew out the word 'coyotes'. Nonetheless, he remained silent and let Shiloh continue.

"I have to be prepared, Chris. You just never know what's lurking around out here."

Chris sighed, and put his head in his hands. "Just because I learned how to shoot a phaser at seven, and you pushed me to teach you doesn't mean that you _have_ to use your newfound skill."

The younger boy averted his eyes, obviously crestfallen.

"Relax, Shiloh. We can actually put that phaser to good use for once, actually, instead of you just carrying it around everywhere." The seventeen-year-old walked his little brother to the rock face. "Let's see if we can carve something out of the rock."

Christopher locked his phaser into a full beam (instead of blasts) and began unloading the bank at the cliff. A horizontal line of rock slowly began to melt. He focused on carving out a solid roof— no use making something that would collapse in a few days' time.

Shiloh quickly set his feet, and proceeded to carve out the body of the cavern. The rock quickly receded as if they were melting a hole in a block of wax.

By nighttime, the cavern was about the size of a room. It was maybe seven feet tall, ten feet wide, and seven or eight feet back into the cliff face. The red-hot rock was flowing into strange patterns on the ceiling and floor. It contrasted sharply with the darkness that overtook the desert landscape when the sun set below the horizon.

The two Pike brothers were some ways away from their handiwork, simply sitting on the sleeping mats they'd brought.

Shiloh glanced up at Christopher. "Today was a good day."

Christopher smiled back down at his younger brother, and drew him into a hug. "You say that like it's the Last Supper, kid. Who says that tomorrow can't be a good day, either? I set the automatons. The horses are taken care of. Hoss won't come looking for another few days." He took the last mouthful of the trout they'd caught and cooked on a hot rock.

Shiloh laughed, and leaned into his older brother with a sigh. "I'm gonna miss you, when you leave."

Christopher set his head on his brother's. "I'm not leaving for another few days—after my birthday. We have this whole camping trip before I go."

"I know," Shiloh sighed as he stared up at the dark, jeweled expanse above. "I just... It's beautiful... but it's so dangerous, too. What if you get hurt?"

Christopher gave a tired smile. "You've never been in space, Shiloh, and... and you don't know what it's _like_ out there." His eyes unfocused slightly as he looked up into the starry expanse above them. "There's just something about being _out_ there... there's so much to do and see..." He looked back at Shiloh, and planted a light kiss on the top of his brother's head. "It's all worth it, Shiloh. If you're ever in space, you'll understand."

"But.. what about Heston? What about Elysium?" Shiloh practically squeaked as he tried to argue his point. "You were lucky then—what if you aren't lucky the next time something like that happens?" He looked up at the thousands of stars above them. "You're my best friend, Chris, _and_ my brother. What if you died out there?"

Christopher promptly hugged his brother, "I'm gonna be fine, Shiloh." He neglected to add that some fears just had to be faced. "You're gonna be fine, too. You'll go back home with Tango and Lyons, and I'll catch the train to San Francisco. Charlie will be none the wiser."

"I still don't like the idea of you running away like this! What if Dad blames me for it?"

Christopher slowly stood, and doused the campfire. The light from the molten rock still put off a warm glow behind him as he laid down on his sleeping mat.

"If he blames you, you don't have anything to worry about, 'cause it's not your fault, kid."

Shiloh laid down on his own mat, and stared woefully upwards at the infinite dark of the sky. "Guess we won't get to use the cave we made, then. You'll be gone before the rock cools."

Christopher gave a slight smile, and looked back upwards. "I'll be back. I'm just going to see if I can tag along with some merchants and run around up there awhile; it's not like I'm gonna join up with Starfleet, or anything. I'll come and visit, and we'll use the cave. Maybe not this time, but sometime."

...

"Hm," I harrumphed noncommittally. "Seems... smaller than when we made it."

Nolan visibly shivered, and I promptly let a phaser beam loose on the walls of the cavern. The rock glowed red, and I immediately felt a wave of heat from the near-melted rock. That would help dry us, at least. I simply laid there next to Nolan, trying to sort through everything that happened today... well... yesterday, by now.

I slowly realized that I was suddenly not in pain anymore... Correction... my shoulder blades were still in agony, but my lower half had gone numb again. Terrific. Absolutely terrific.

My thoughts were interrupted by a mumble from Nolan. I turned slightly, and looked back at him.

"What was that? Nolan? What did you say?"

Nolan shivered. "You were thinking about Dad... about when you made this place, weren't you, Uncle Chris?"

I returned his stare. "Why do you say that?"

Nolan sighed, and settled back onto the floor. "'Cause he was your brother... and because _I_ haven't been able to stop thinking about him." He sighed as he looked back up at the ceiling. "Dad always told me that whenever we came here, he always remembered the camping trip you two went on just before you ran away to join Starfleet."

I blinked momentarily. It wasn't exactly a lie. I had ended up in Starfleet. "I do remember that... I'm just kinda surprised he would want to."

"He... uh... he talked about it all the time to me, when we came up here. It was... a special place." He looked at the back wall sheepishly. "I didn't... didn't really want to... want to die. I'm just gonna miss him a lot."

Nolan edged slight closer, and I laid my arm over him. I tried to give him a reassuring smile, but it was a little hard when we were both freezing and injured. "I'm gonna miss him, too."

Nolan shuddered again, and his eyes closed briefly.

"You feeling weird—like shock?"

He slowly shook his head. "No... just... tired," he sighed.

I drew my lips in slightly. While I didn't exactly want him sleeping after the ordeal he'd gone through before getting checked out, I wasn't going to be able to stay awake much longer, either. "We'll make it. You know that, right?"

Nolan averted his eyes. "Bet that's what Dad said to his crew when they panicked."

I resisted the urge to snap, 'Nero didn't give him that chance.' Instead, I simply rested there on the stone... Honestly, if I could fall asleep but never dream again, it'd be fine by me.

 ** _To be Continued..._**


	9. Chapter 9

The hero always has to fall... to be broken... before he can be fixed again. That's how it always goes (or is supposed to go) in the stories. There's always despair, but there's also the slightest glimmer of hope. That's why the epics are so appealing. That's why clichéd stories are still the most loved—people just loved the type.

And yet... looking at his situation... Well. ' _Cliché_ ' was putting it _mildly_.

Twelve-year-old Christopher Prescott looked out at the dark water he had just swam through, and the orange blaze beyond. Black rainwater rolled down his cheeks and mixed with the tears that came from pain and grief and shock. His father was gone. Just... snuffed out by the roaring, enraged flames that threatened them from beyond. Heston Prescott wasn't the only colonist who would die in the fire... but that didn't make it any more comforting for Christopher.

He looked up at the embers that still tried to travel across the river to the dry pine trees on the island, but to no avail. The rain quickly put them out, effectively creating a barrier between the survivors and the fire.

Imaged flashed in his mind. His father... his mother... who would have been his younger sibling. Caleb... the twins Jake and Huffy... Mr. Bryant, and his daughter Jess; he had seen them all die. He had seen it with his own eyes. He didn't know how many more had burned to death in the fire, but tears continued rolling down his cheeks as he gasped for air on the beach.

Strong arms picked Christopher up... Charlie, the farmhand, had somehow survived the fire, and managed to make it to the river relatively unscathed. Christopher relaxed into the tall man's arms as he was carried away from the grey sands, and into the pine forest.

The rain was less here in the forest, and Christopher looked around in a fog at the surviving colonists scrambling to get some sort of shelter set up for the night.

There seemed to be a prevailing haze of hopelessness and reflection that had settled on the entire island, as heavy as the rain that pelted them in the saving deluge. No one spoke as they worked... it seemed as if the adrenaline had slowed, and the shock of what had just happened set in.

Charlie set Christopher down on some sort of mat, or cot underneath a tilted tarp held up with poles. Something of a shelter... but Christopher sighed upon seeing that the foil tarp leaked, and a dark, slick water was still dripping down.

There was a heat lamp someone had set up in the little shelter next to the cot, and for a moment, Christopher was thankful for what little drying power the lamp had.

Christopher sighed, and tried to take off... what was left of his shirt. Somehow, though, the synthetic cloth had managed to _melt_. The now-hardened plastic stuck into the burns on the boy's upper arms and chest. Christopher managed to shed his trousers, at least, and for a moment, he just wanted to rest there under the heat lamp.

No such luck. An oxygen mask was gently pressed over his nose and mouth, and something sharp began to dig the melted plastic out of the burns. Admittedly, it did hurt a lot. Still... Christopher felt so much in a daze, he remained silent and simply stared back out toward the river, and the fire. It seemed... smaller than it had before. The rain, probably. Or the fire had simply reached the end of its fuel, and was beginning to burn itself out. Either way, Christopher decided, it made no difference to him.

A warm wet rag rubbed over his face, chest, and arms—this water was clean, not acrid and dark and oily like the river water, or the rain. It felt refreshing, and yet... somehow Christopher couldn't bring himself to be happy about simple pleasures.

In fact, Christopher would find himself being unable to be 'happy' for a long time.

...

Elysium before the fires truly lived up to its name. The entire planet's topography was made up of floodplains and rolling hills. It was a planet almost entirely covered in grass—with a few pockets of snow north and south.

The soil was incredibly fertile, and Terran animals as a whole thrived there. There were no dangerous animal species, like there were on most other worlds.

The plains were populated solely by large herbivorous members of the rodent family affectionately called Jack-mice by the colonists. The herds of Jack-mice were quickly thinned out by the colonists as meat or as pets. (An average Jack-mouse was about the size of a small dog, so it came as no surprise that most cats were... wary, to say the least.)

However, as the colonists of Elysium learned the hard way, paradise came at a price. Soil studies made after the devastating wildfires showed that Elysium actually went through a cycle of abundant agricultural fertility and droughts with fiery destruction every hundred years or so.

Elysium after the fires... Christopher could only describe it as death and misery.

The surviving colonists were still trying to scrape out a vague existence on the island five months later, when Starfleet assistance finally arrived on-world in the dead of a cold winter.

As much as he was pleased to know that they could finally leave their destroyed prison, Christopher couldn't help but feel a sharp pang of resentment towards their rescuers. It was by no means at a fault of their own... maybe he was just being selfish. It could have very easily been that, as well.

On Elysium, one thing happened that Christopher never saw again, and thoroughly missed seeing. In the aftermath of the wildfires, and especially after the Schism, everyone was vulnerable. Most people had been injured in the fire, and it was suddenly a matter of survival. A lot of things were decided not to matter. If you were present and alive, you were a survivor. That meant that, regardless of age, you were an equal, and you pulled your weight to help keep everyone else alive.

Christopher Richard Prescott (Or was it.. Pike? Yes. Charlie Pike had told him, unfortunately...) earned his place among the colonists as an _equal_. It was EARNED, mind you, not riding on the back of Heston Prescott's terrible, but later celebrated, legacy.

It was _he_ who had kept the colony together. It was _he_ who had kept his kids alive. It was _he_ who had met the Starfleet rescuers first. It was _he_ whom they had first dismissed.

...

As was normal of most tales, it began simply enough.

Christopher had been watching for the hunters to come back with food—the supplies were running low, and with the cold... any extra furs for tunics were desperately needed.

Starfleet clothing, unfortunately, was one of the things that could be easily ruined by the elements. Sure, their clothing was supposedly high-tech... weatherproof and wear-resistant, but then, things were always over-glorified in advertisements. Combine that with the fact that most colonists escaped with essentially _nothing_... well. There you had a situation.

Now, Christopher wasn't the official governor of the colony, but he might as well have been. After all, he was the oldest of the seventeen surviving children—a month away from his thirteenth birthday.

A bit of explanation is due.

At the onset of winter, almost half of the remaining seventy survivors had fallen ill again, this time from pneumonia. Dear old Charlie Pike was among their number. (Old... let's be fair. He was _barely_ thirty.) At any rate, the healthy adults had decided to strike out on their own, leaving the children and the sick behind.

Yes, there were _those_ types, even among Starfleet... Just ask the infamous Kodos of Taurus IV some years later. There were many vicious, heartless people to match the cold of space. Violent atrocities happened more often than most people would admit, actually.

Christopher would later learn _that_ over his undergraduate tour aboard the _Sanguinity_ (at the time, a part of the Colony Relief-In-Emergency Corps). His time with the CRIECs only solidified his belief that human savagery met no bounds- a belief formed back in his early childhood...

It had been impractical to stop the dissidents from leaving the island, but that left the survivors on the island an even fewer number. It was an island of sick adults, and mere children. Perhaps the dissidents thought that it was for the best; that they had a better chance of surviving if they didn't have to pull the extra weight. Maybe that was true.

On the other hand, Christopher had made one last attempt to dissuade the leaving colonists, arguing that they would be sentencing their fellow survivors to death. The leader- a man by the name of Gregory Hawthorne—replied that he didn't care, that he was going to lead the strong survivors away, that he didn't care that his twelve-year old son Tristan was among their number, and that he hoped the rest of the colonists burned in hell.

In all honesty, that put Christopher off.

The rest of the sick adults struggled to keep the colony running in the following days. In less than two weeks after the departure of Gregory Hawthorne and his... people, it was suddenly not an uncommon sight to see young children working alongside their sick elders. They took up every job they could—sewing clothes, gathering and purifying water, chopping wood—even hunting.

So that's where Christopher found himself on a cold snowy evening with a fire in the corner of his hovel. The hutch, unlike most others, was open on one side, instead of closed like the other hovels.

The wooded areas on the island proved to be enough to make timber for several hovels... Because they ran out of wood, the tarps still had to be used as roofs, and the damned things still leaked... The buildings were only large enough to fit four people inside. It was a grim matter of the fact that, after the last round of deaths, all twenty-nine remaining colonists did indeed fit snugly into the hovels.

That still left him with the one building that was open to the elements. Christopher had quickly snapped the half-finished hutch up after the dissidents had left. Even though he was freezing most of the time, it gave him a good view of the island (that he pretty much was in charge of)... and besides. He liked being alone.

He sat in his father's wood rocking chair (the only flammable thing that they had found in the entire smoldering remains of the colony that survived) and watched over the island. His island, he had begun to believe.

A small series of lights and movement across the river bolted him out of his thoughts. The hunters were back with food. The food would have to be divvied up again, and Christopher's stomach suddenly gave an unhappy growl. He drew in his lips, before pursing them again. He hadn't eaten a good meal in awhile. Then, of course, not a lot of people _had_.

Chris decided to wait a moment before going out to welcome them... what? It was cold out. Suddenly, he recognized flashes of red and yellow in the distance. No colonist had any clothes that colorful left. It wasn't as if they hadn't cannibalized the uniforms for salvageable material for clothes, but... a lot of it was faded, or mixed with Jack-mouse hide or thread-barren patchworks of a variety of cloth.

A thought instantly popped into his mind: Starfleet.

His very first reaction was to stand up and rush out to greet them. He only made it to the standing up part, because his very second thought was to remember how long it had taken help to arrive. Instead of running out into the cold, he sat back down in his rocking chair.

They seemed to be taking their sweet time out in the cold, almost unconcerned at their slothfulness. No wonder it had taken them almost half a year to get around to helping out.

"Tristan."

The twelve-year-old looked up from his sewing work at the crate they called The Desk. He was slightly younger than Christopher; he had just turned twelve a month or two prior—what a birthday. Still, he was the second oldest of the children, and that meant that he was second in command.

Chris blinked. His friend was looking a little... bedraggled today. He'd have to get a solid portion of food. As much as Chris regretted taking parts from other people's allotments... he knew very well that his lieutenant had sacrificed his own food several times now. They both had, Chris thought bitterly as pangs of hunger spiked in his stomach. Well. Maybe the Starfleet officers wouldn't be averse to not being welcomed with a feast.

"Yeh, Chris?"

The older boy leaned forward and pointed out into the snowy night, and his outer-reaches accent made itself quite evident. "Get a load o' this. _CRIECs_. Just standing there like it's _shore leave_." He pointed out to the Starfleet uniforms poking around in the snow out in the darkness.

Tristan slowly stood, and turned to look out of the hutch. "How- how long've they been out there?"

Chris laughed bitterly. "Five minutes."

"I'll be _damned_ ," Tristan swore, a look of utter horrified amusement plastered over his face. "Five minutes?"

Chris chuckled, "I should wash your mouth out with soap, I should."

Tristan gave Chris a good-natured glare. "Hav'ta wash yer own mouth too, mister. 'Cause you ain't _no_ better." He laughed as he dragged out the 'O'.

" _Any_. Any better. You'll never get out of _grade school_ if you have grammar like that."

"Y'know, they look like they're lookin' for somethin'. See that? Poking around in the snow like that 'stead of comin' 'round to say hello..."

"Tristan, go tell everybody that there's Starfleet about. Real quiet-like. I don't want people's hopes getting up. With the way those CRIECs are acting, they might not get over here 'til the cows come home."

Tristan walked away with a smirk. " _Now_ who ain't gettin' outta _grade school_?"

" _YOU_ ," Chris hollered after his friend.

Chris continued to watch the Starfleet officers comb the snow banks on the other side of the river.

It took awhile, but the Starfleet CRIECs finally made it to the bridge, and across to the island. After spotting his hutch, they made a beeline to it at the top of the small hill. Chris harrumphed—it took them long enough.

He stood as they approached, and pulled on his coat. It was really more of a... a cloak. Jack-mouse hides, yes, but it kept the cold out. It also made him look slightly taller—not that he needed the help, he was only a few inches shy of five feet tall already.

"Gentlemen," he said in his most cordial voice possible as they walked up the slope. "I welcome you with open arms."

The four Starfleet officers appeared a bit clueless—they were security by their bright red thermal coats. (He always wondered why... red. Wouldn't that make them even _more_ of a target for a phaser blast? Oh, well.) Suddenly, out from their merry band of clueless redshirts came a younger man clad in yellow. He was a captain, by the stripes on his sleeves.

"Howdy, son," the captain said casually. "Nice winter you're having here."

Chris gave him a flat glare. Nice winter—sure it was; _if_ you didn't mind freezing to death in your bed. That _had_ happened... What kind of people _were_ these? Plus, he hadn't seen anyone offering coats up, so they weren't _really_ concerned about any one of the colonists who were clad in the equivalent of rags.

"I unfortunately have to disagree with you, Captain..."

"Robert. Robert April." He looked around slightly. "Your people seem to have a nice set-up going. Who built these?"

"I did," Chris replied curtly.

The redshirts shifted uneasily, and the captain looked back at him. "I find that hard to believe. What's your name, son?"

"My name is Peter Pan, and the Lost Boys and I built the remnant of this colony." He couldn't help but sneak sarcasm in there. What?—they _deserved_ it.

"I'm not in the mood for games, son." The captain's voice took on a deeper quality- almost unfit for the young dark-haired man. "You tell me, you tell me straight, and you tell me _now._ Where is your leader—where is Heston Prescott? What's your name? Who are your parents? Do they know where you are- that you're inhibiting our rescue effort?"

Christopher turned back and walked to the rocking chair. "I _am_ the acting leader of this colony. Most of the adults deserted us here, and the remaining few are suffering from pneumonia... They can't be here to welcome you." He turned back to face the Captain. " _I_ am the eldest of the children. Responsibility for the safety of the colony fell to _me_."

Robert April hadn't said a word, and the redshirts had only moved slightly closer to the entrance to the hutch because it had begun to snow again.

Christopher pointed to the rocking chair, and his voice cracked as tears formed in his eyes. " _That_ , sir, is Heston Prescott—the only thing that is _left_... of my _father_!"

...

Now Robert knew where he had seen the boy. Heston had been an old Academy buddy of his- Robert had been best man at the wedding that made the boy Heston's stepson. Of course, Chris had been a lot younger at the time, but that intensely astute, unsettling expression that had been plastered on the boy's face for the whole wedding wasn't something easily forgotten.

...

"Chris, I-"

Christopher's titanium blue eyes blazed with... it was grief, he was almost certain. "They were both killed in the fire."

"I'm sorry to hear-"

Christopher walked forward out of the hutch into the snow, resisting the urge to let the tears spill down his cheeks. "However, I no longer answer to Heston's legacy. I intend to make a legacy of my own. My name, sir, is Christopher. Christopher Richard Pike."

...

To say that Robert was skeptical of the young boy was an understatement.

He knew that it was maybe an inaccurate assumption; Chris had always seemed... different from other children. It was both in a good way, and a bad way. Chris seemed to take things so _seriously_ , and he had even before Heston had become his father. He didn't seem to really be a _kid_ , even- not in spirit, anyways. So it didn't _really_ come as a surprise to Robert that Chris would be the type who would try such dumb shenanigans as trying to run a colony. That's just how the miniature adult came across.

The kid had guts, it was true. His parents were dead, and he had managed to keep a colony together, somewhat. Still. The lack of... Adult supervision... put Robert off. It wasn't until Christopher gave them a full tour of the colony and he saw the condition of the adults that he truly believed the boy.

The adults indeed were suffering from pneumonia—Robert had them transported directly to the Enterprise's MedBay for immediate treatment for poorly healed wounds, smoke inhalation, and the aforementioned illness.

It was amazing what had happened to the colony in the six months that the Colony Relief-In-Emergency Corps's effort to get to Elysium had been tied up in Red Tape.

He was partially disappointed that things had degraded so far that the children—mere _children_ , mind you—had been forced to run the whole colony—or at least what was left of it. The rest of him was shocked and impressed with how they'd actually survived here.

The _Endurance_ had already determined from a sensor sweep that the original colony was entirely destroyed, but they had given no indication of something like _this_ on this little island. Buildings... a kind of hospital... some form of infrastructure... What really angered him, though, was the leadership.

The band of freezing, starving children did indeed seem to be headed by Chris Prescott, who now answered to 'Chris Pike'... Upon learning that all of the children's parents were dead, sick, or had abandoned them, Robert April was suddenly overtaken by pangs of... pity for the young survivors. Children shouldn't have had to deal with something like that. They should have been taken care of by their parents. 'Should have' was the operative phrase there.

Regardless of how well Christopher handled the situation, Robert know that there would definitely be issues in the future. The least of those would be the lack of respect for adult authority which would undoubtedly spread, by how loyal the kids were to Chris. Robert admitted, however, that he couldn't help but be amazed at how Christopher cared for his fellow survivors. The security team had just finished securing the perimeter of the island, when that idea was solidified in his mind.

A ragtag band of four children dressed in patchwork Starfleet-uniform-and-leather tunics and bearing large packs had stumbled over the bridge into the clearing in the center of the buildings.

"Chris! Chris! We're back!" the oldest of the newcomers yelled. Robert's jaw dropped as the children collapsed in the clearing and Christopher ran to meet them. Three boys and one girl; all looking to be less than ten years old, and all half-frozen in what were basically rags.

"Kevin! I thought you and the Hunters got lost! How much?" Christopher picked up the boy who appeared to be the... squad leader, and helped him stand. He motioned for help, and more children came out to pull their comrades up.

"WELL?" Robert stared at his security team, who hadn't moved since laying eyes on the incoming children.

The Starfleet officers quickly jumped into action, picking up the children Christopher had called Hunters.

Christopher nodded a brief thanks to the security team that helped him carry the half-frozen kids into an empty hovel. Robert quickly followed them in.

He found a primarily empty room, contrary to the bins and crates in the other hovels. Except for a metal disc on the floor and rack of—was that leather?—on the wall, the hovel was shockingly bare.

He looked down at Christopher and Kevin. They were pulling out what looked like large mice from the packs. Christopher had already grabbed a small knife from a holster on his belt, and began cleaning the rodents—there were about seven of them on the dirt floor.

The young girl had stood up by this time, and walked to one of the security officers, calmly relieving him of his phaser (Robert would have to have words with him about that...), and firing it into the hard disc on the center of the floor. It glowed brightly, and Christopher and Kevin promptly placed the slices... oh, _hell, no_.

Robert blinked, half in shock. "You... you've been eating... Giant mice? How long has this been going on?"

Christopher continued cooking the cuts of meat as the other three children worked, only answering Robert's question after several seconds of silence with an offhand, "Jack-mice, actually." Quieter, the boy added with his heavy accent, "'M sorry we can't spare any for you and your men, but we barely have enough for ourselves, see."

Robert slowly nodded. "We have rations of our own."

One of the security officers made eye contact with him, and shook his head. Yeah... they didn't actually have any rations. That would have to be transported from the _Endurance_. Still, judging by the amount of food here, they could get more food out of a single run of the transporter than there people would have had in a _week_. Robert amended his statement. "We actually have more than enough from the ship... If you're willing, we'll share them with you."

Christopher nodded slowly, thought Robert could clearly see mistrust plastered all over the child's face. "Thank you," the boy said simply, as he pulled several slabs of cooked meat off of the cooking disc and replaced them with raw cuts.

Robert quickly told the security officers to beam back to the ship, and gather as much food as they could to send back. He furthermore told them to not come back—he would be fine for the night. After they exited the hovel, Robert walked to the rack of sharp-looking utensils. The best way to show these kids that he cared was to share in their work. He picked up a shard of metal that had been filed into a sort of knife.

It was rather odd, cleaning a rodent. He had gutted fish on earth before, but never something that looked... like this.

After all of the Jack-mouse meat had been... processed, and cooked, Chris motioned Robert over to the door. Robert quickly obliged. "What is it?" He asked. "Was that... did I not do it right?"

Christopher simply motioned to the windows. Robert suddenly noticed that they-at least he—had quite a crowd. Several hands had peeled the tarps away from the windows, and faces had poked in the holes. The boy looked up at them, and then back at Robert. "They... uh... They aren't exactly _friendly_ with adults right now. 'Specially not strange ones. I'm sure you know why."

"Well, yeah..."

"I'll tell them that you're OK, but... chances are, they aren't gonna touch anything you handled. Don't take it personally." The boy's eyes blazed with a brilliant fire of loyalty. "I'm going to show you how we've made it out here. But you have to promise me that you will NOT question me in front of them. You can tell me off later, but not in front of them, understood?"

Robert nodded quickly, and Christopher called out into the cold. "Tristan!"

In walked a scrawny brunette—obviously malnourished, but with eyes the color of summer leaves. "Yeah, Chris?"

"Tristan, I told you to tell people quietly. What happened to keeping it low-key, hmm?" He turned back to the kids at the windows. "All right, everybody. Line up for chow. Regular order."

With a jubilant chorus, the children obeyed. Within seconds, all... seventeen, Robert counted, were inside the little hovel. They barely fit, and it was standing room only. To be honest, Robert wasn't exactly... comfortable in close quarters with a troop of starving, half-frozen kids. He was, however, overwhelmingly curious as to Chris's 'system'.

One child gave a concerned shout, but Robert couldn't quite make out what the girl had said through her thick slang and accent.

Christopher promptly answered her before beginning to hand out the meat. "The CRIECs 'ave taken the adults, so we can be sure they'll be fed right well... I hope," he added, addressing Robert.

Chris doled out the portions of meat—not very much for each kid, when you considered it. Robert did notice that the youngest children got the most, and the portion sizes decreased with increasing age.

The children had received every little morsel as if it were Christmas morning before running back out into the cold to get back to their hovels and chow down, and that practically broke Robert's heart. These were just kids, and here they were, acting as if food were precious jewels.

Soon, it was just Tristan and Chris. They both stared at the last slab of meat, as if it were going to be the last food they had for days... knowing the wintery conditions, Robert thought that it probably was an accurate assessment.

"Take it, Chris," Tristan finally said. "You need it way more than I do. You run the whole place."

"And you haven't eaten in a week," Christopher promptly retorted.

"You ain't eaten in a week and a half either; don't you talk to me 'bout starvin' to death!"

"You will eat, because I _said_ so."

Robert had never been thankful enough for the whirr of a transporter. As soon as it arrived, he ran to the crate. It was chock-full of bread, meat, and bottles of milk. How they had ever managed all that out of the replicator, Robert didn't know. He was still thankful.

He pulled out a warm slice of bread and a bottle of chilled milk. Robert didn't think it was possible for a human to turn around so quickly, but Chris and Tristan did, upon smelling the warm bread.

"Whoa," they said in unison.

Christopher stuffed the box into Tristan's hands, and slowly walked towards the crate. " Tristan, eat what you have, then you get everyone back in here for another round..." He reached in the crate, and pulled out a bottle of milk. "This is... all food?"

"Yeah," Robert said. "There's plenty more where that came from, if you need it."

"No, no. Don't tempt them. We do _not_ need to deal with refeeding syndrome right now."

Robert was at first thankful that Chris knew not to overfeed the children after malnutrition, but his second thought went to _why_ the boy knew that. His brow furrowed as another wave of sympathy hit him. Sure, he'd seen such before; during his tours with the CRIEC he'd seen it lots of times... still, he could never accept it.

"Alright... Well, you need anything more, you let me know."

Christopher waited and glared until Tristan had left before hissing through gritted teeth, "Just get us _off_ this godforsaken rock."

 ** _To be continued..._**


	10. Chapter 10

Starfleet helped his kids, sure. The officers gave the colonists medical attention, sure. They gave them food and water and better shelters, sure. They did everything they could to help the colonists recover on the island, and recover well so that they could go back to the _USS Endurance_ within the month. Still, somehow, Christopher couldn't help but feel a sharp pang of resentment towards their rescuers. It was _his_ colony. _He_ should have been providing for his kids, not some _Relief Corps_.

Somehow he was now just another victim of Elysian winter now, instead of a survivor. They practically babied him- treated him as if he were made of glass, even when he insisted that the other kids needed the help more than he did. They ignored his protests, saying that the other kids were well cared for. To be honest, he didn't really believe them; his kids needed _him_. Somehow, his opinion suddenly didn't matter. He didn't like that very much.

Every child was cared for by two people, a husband and wife pair that Robert later told him was standard when dealing with so many orphans, because the young survivors would need security and a new sort of normal... except for Chris. Chris dealt directly with the captain, because it was supposedly a special situation. Supposedly.

He still tried to work with the Starfleet officers instead of just letting them work, because he couldn't help but feel like he should be caring for the kids... But somehow he felt like he was being replaced; tossed to the side. His kids were getting more distant from him, and he hated that...

It stayed that way for two weeks until they transported up to the _Endurance_. The adults (the couples) went ahead of the kids, to 'get their rooms ready' (as if they were coming home from a long trip), and the kids stayed on Elysium for an hour or two more until they could come up to the _Endurance_.

Christopher had never been so joyous (or so disheartened) in his life. He was leaving Elysium, but he was also leaving his... his home. His responsibilities. He was going to miss that, in all honesty.

So, the whirr and tingle of the transporter signaled the end of his life as he had known it for the past half-year. He was tempted to revel in it. He was finally free from that terrible, terrible place. Everyone was finally safe, and they could begin to recover again. He wanted to be happy when he and his kids arrived on the _Endurance_. He did want to...

Instead, he was angry at the way... at the way the couples picked the kids up, and loved on them as if they were their parents. They were... they were holding the older ones in their arms... just holding them, telling them that it would be OK. The younger ones were being held... some of the younger kids were even laughing as their adoptive parents ran forward and picked them up... they were laughing. It was a sound that Christopher hadn't heard in months, and it was a beautiful sound... but it was one that he wished he could have been responsible for.

It was a strange feeling that he could describe only as jealousy.

So after the other adults had left, and the room was completely empty, he simply sat cross-legged on the deck of the transporter pad, and... well. He couldn't call it pouting, could he?

It wasn't until Robert spoke that Chris even knew he had been there the whole time.

"You know... Charlie's gonna be OK, if it means anything to you. He's stable now... we hope the fever will break within a few days." Robert broke the silence with a quiet update on the boy's birth father.

"As if I care," Chris said with a noticeably dangerous evenness in his voice. "He lied to me. They all did..."

"You changed your name to Pike, after him."

"I chose the lesser of two evils," Chris shrugged. "Heston committed suicide. I won't _ever_ forgive him for that."

Silence prevailed once more.

"You can't just sit here as long as you want," Robert finally said as he sat down. "We need this space so we can use the transporter."

"I shall sit here as long as I see fit," the boy spat back.

Robert said nothing.

"Besides," the twelve year old added with a bitter laugh, "they don't need me around anymore. They'd just... Throw me away like a damned piece of trash, they would."

Robert simply shook his head. "I know how you feel."

" _No_. No you don't," Christopher snapped. "Don't try to patronize me."

"Well, you feel like you're losing control. Like you're being stripped of your command... your people are being taken away from you. I know how that affects people, at least starship captains."

Christopher eyed him lightly. "You a shrink?"

Robert smiled. "Doctorate, and everything."

Christopher glared at him coldly- the titanium blue eyes were unsettling, to say the least. "Firstly, you're too good at your job. Secondly, you're a terrible person."

Robert gave a wry laugh. "Glad you approve... but really. I know how that feels. Command is ripped away from you... you feel like there's not anything left; least, not anything left living for."

" _I want my kids_ ," Chris screeched. "I want things to be like they were before!... Not starvation and death, but where I'm needed, and I can help people! You and your... _CRIECs_ are taking that away from me!" Tears were in his eyes by this time, and he drew his knees up to his chin, and buried his face in his arms.

Robert simply pulled a blanket over Christopher's hunched shoulders, and draped his arm around the boy as he cried. "I think there's something that you should know."

"What?" A muffled response barely made it through the fabric of the pale shirt the boy was wearing.

"In the past few weeks, I haven't been able to escape hearing about you. All about you."

"Hm?" The boy's head lifted slightly. "What- what do you mean?"

"Just what I've said." Robert gave as mile, and drew Chris into his lap. "You're practically the talk of the ship, and not just because of your achievement in running a colony almost all by yourself. Your name, evidently, is what half of the colonists' speech is comprised of. I keep hearing 'Chris Pike' this and 'Chris Pike' that... At least five of my people have come up to me asking me to recommend you for a citation. I don't know if I should, but with all the talk going around... I'm seriously considering it."

Chris reflexively curled up and nestled against Robert's chest. " _Don't you dare_. I've got enough problems without all the pomp of a ceremony. Give it to somebody else." Somehow, his right arm had placed itself awkwardly, and Christopher gave a growl as he pulled his arm forward, and began rubbing it gently.

"You alright?"

"No, I'm not... I'm not naturally left-handed. I've been having to use it, because my right arm… doesn't work very well… I'm still exercising it as much as I can, but… The doctor didn't look very happy, when I saw him…" Christopher trailed off.

Robert's thoughts were drawn back to what the doctor told him a few days prior after Chris's physical examination (which the latter had protested vehemently). 'Not working well' was putting it lightly. Evidently, Christopher had nearly gotten himself incinerated in the blaze while attempting to rescue a friend of his. The doctor said that he didn't know what really happened to the other child, but he had a good guess, by both the burns and Chris's relative avoidance of the topic. All in all, Chris wasn't likely to ever achieve any more than 50% usage out of his right hand again.

"Listen…. The doctor told me that… you may not be able to use your right arm very well, for quite some time. He thinks you'll recover, but the damage was extensive, and you ended up with hardly any medical care-"

Christopher cut him off. "All due respect sir, but please don't treat me like I don't know that. Don't treat me like a child."

"You _are_ a child."

"I am just as much the leader of the Elysian colony as Heston Prescott! So far, I haven't received any recognition as such!"

Robert straightened, nearly dumping Chris out of his lap.

There it was. He had wanted to find a way to pick at the boy's shell, and let him release the pent-up feelings that were just itching to come out. And here he had it. He had Chris right where he wanted him—he could break him, so that the boy could heal. "You're just a child, Christopher."

Chris was red-faced, and Robert nearly expected a rolling-on-the-floor tantrum out of him. Upon a second reflection, however, he somehow didn't think that the boy would go in for that sort of that thing. Chris wasn't above a yelling contest, though. " _SO_?! What's that got to do with anything?!"

Robert stood, and Chris whirled around to face him. They eyed each other for a moment, before Robert spoke. "You're only a boy—you have no idea how to run a colony."

"Well, I did a bloody _fine_ job, if I say so! You think you could have done better?!"

"Damn straight, I could have done a better job! You had no right to take control!" Just a few more pushes, and—

Christopher screeched, and gave Robert a solid left hook to the jaw. The force of the impact shocked the captain, and sent him reeling to the floor. Considering that the boy was so light, Robert was momentarily stunned that such a thin frame could possess so much power. Evidently it could.

Robert got on all fours, and glanced up at the boy, who glared at him coldly. That was either a good sign, or a sign that he was going to get kicked. "You think I had a choice?!" Christopher still had his fists clenched, and his teeth gritted as he stood above Robert. "They left us! Hawthorne left us! He fought with Charlie at every turn, saying that the kids and the elderly weren't worth the trouble to keep them alive… then when Charlie got sick, he left with all of the other healthy adults! He left us to die—he left his _son_ to die! I proved that we could survive, when he thought we were worthless and useless!" Christopher's eyes blazed with an icy fire. "I watched my parents and my friends die. Hawthorne nearly killed the rest of us... Now my kids are being taken away from me! How am I supposed to respond to that?! "

Robert wiped the blood away from his busted lip, and snapped back into his counselor-mode. "I get it, Chris," he panted. "Just... calm down, and we can talk... You're confused, and you want someone to blame for all of this... We found Gregory Hawthorne and the others dead. There isn't someone to blame."

Christopher blinked and a blank expression came over his face before he walked over to the wall and leaned against it tiredly.

Robert slowly stood... he saw the telltale signs of pain and regret plastered all over Chris's face as he approached. He realized he would definitely have to tread lightly... the boy was too delicate a situation to approach any other way.

Christopher's next words were so quiet, Robert barely heard them.

"Will I... will I ever be _normal_ again?" A tear slid down the boy's cheek.

Robert slowly wrapped his arms around Christopher in a hug, and the latter made no response. "You'll have to build a new kind of normal. It's not going to be easy, but I know that you're strong, and you can do anything you put your mind to. I've seen it in the way you led an _entire colony_. Not many people can do that kind of thing—much less when they're _twelve_. You still have Charlie... even if you don't like him, you can start rebuilding a life with him. And don't worry if you're scared... Remember that you're just a normal kid again. You can give yourself a little more leeway now."

Christopher shook his head, and leaned gently into Robert's embrace. "I... I don't know how I should feel anymore... I mean.. I should feel sad about Greg Hawthorne's death... but... I'm _not_. I'm glad, more than anything. I know I _shouldn't_ be. I shouldn't be glad at anyone's death..." He trailed off, and nestled his head into Robert's chest.

Suddenly, Robert heard the sound of crying... no. That wasn't just crying; that was _weeping_. He slowly nodded, and hugged Chris tightly.

"I want to be normal again," Chris half-yelled, half-sobbed. "I want to be normal, like the _other_ kids are! I want to be _happy_ again; I want to _forget_ , but I _can't_!"

Robert simply stood there, holding the boy tightly. "You won't ever forget, but you can rise above it... You of all people should know that. You'll recover."

"You were picking my brain, weren't you?" Chris was still crying, but he managed to put that much together. "You were doing your psychology thing."

"I was... I just wanted to find out what was bugging you. Some people talk more when they're angry. I didn't mean what I said... I have the utmost respect for you and your kids. But you needed to get all of that out."

Chris winced slightly, but the tears still rolling down his cheeks overwhelmed any other expression he had. "... Robert... hold me."

Robert gave the child a pitying glance as they both sank to the floor. "I am. I am holding you."

Chris was hyperventilating at this point, and his entire body shuddered. "I can't feel it... I can't... feel it. It-" Chris was cut off by a low groan that emanated from his throat. "It _hurts_."

Robert's brow furrowed. "Are you OK, son?"

Chris was unconscious by this point, and Robert quickly picked him up, and hurriedly carried him back to the MedBay.

 ** _To be Continued..._**


	11. Chapter 11a

11.a.

Sure, it was just Maglight in my eyes (yes; those still existed), but it sure felt like I'd died and gone to heaven. Not that I had any experience with that sort of thing—I'd only ever died a little bit and come back. Cue the infernal mental laughter that comes with realizing that your own remark is both incredibly stupid and still manages to amuse you…

No, I wasn't dead, but there's always that feeling that you are somehow extremely close. It is compounded when your last conscious memory is being huddled in the back of a cave with someone else who is severely injured.

There was a light shining down directly into my eyes, and I promptly blinked. There were faces hovering over me. I didn't recognize them, and from the color of blue that they seemed to be wreathed in, they were probably Starfleet. Now, how had they found me? I came to a sudden realization that I was cold and wet. It was followed closely by the realization that there was rain soaking me, and rolling down the raincoats beside me…. I wasn't lying in the cave anymore; that much was obvious. The light flashed off, and I expected to be thrown into complete darkness, because of the dilation in my eyes.

Instead, my gaze was drawn to the tall lights on poles that shone forth in the rain, illuminating me, as well as my unconscious nephew. Speaking of...

I gave an incoherent grunt as two medics lifted my nephew up onto a hover-stretcher. He might as well have been my son, for all of the fuss I obviously decided to put up. A Hypo plunged into my neck, and a sudden wave of hyper-awareness and skittishness washed over me. The world felt... off, and it seemed like everything was in slow motion. "Nolan! Nolan... where are they... where are they taking him," I slurred (somehow my mouth didn't seem to want to work correctly).

The rain continued to pour. Thunder roared overhead. I was soaked to the bone. I gave a slight shiver, and attempted to roll over to see Nolan. I barely made it halfway before a hand pushed on my shoulder, bringing me back to my old position in the mud. The water droplets continued to mix with the tears that streamed down my face... I couldn't feel my legs anymore, and based on previous experiences, that was a BAD thing.

"He'll be well taken care of. We're airlifting him to Los Angeles Med. Both of you, actually, so cooperate."

I tried to roll over again, and this time made it to a upside-up position to see them loading him into the shuttle. It took off within seconds, and my attention was brought to the second shuttle waiting with opened bay doors. The rain rolled down my face, and I gave a final yell before the medics finally pushed me down with force.

To be honest, I have no idea why I was so emotional. Perhaps it was just the stress. It could have easily been the stress. The stress of the past two weeks were finally taking their toll... but what a place for it to happen.

I suddenly was overtaken by a second wave of overpowering adrenalin, and the world practically turned on its head.

Hollow voices above me mentioned something about shock.

I felt myself being lifted onto a stretcher. At the very first moment when they lifted me, pain exploded in my upper back. I let loose a hideous wail over the rushing of the rain that lasted until they got me onto the stretcher. I gasped for air as they strapped me in... They seemed to be working quickly, but we still weren't shielded from the deluge.

Suddenly, another figure hovered over me, and I could have sworn that it was Alexander Marcus. The figure spoke, and my suspicions were proved correct. "Chris," his low drawl said, "You're an idiot."

My head lolled. "I... I'm not an idiot," I gasped. "I tried to help my nephew."

"You nearly got yourself killed, you mean. Your wife was worried sick, and so was I." Alex walked with them as they rushed me up the ramp and into the ship.

I heard one of the medics say something to effect of 'keep him talking'.

I shuddered on the stretcher, suddenly realizing that I was sheltered from the rain in a bright, warm shuttle. "How... how is Nolan?" I managed to speak, though my heart felt like it was going to pound right out of my chest if it beat any faster. "Is he gonna be OK? He... he fell down a cliff."

Alex nodded lightly. "You already told us that."

I did?

"He'll be OK, probably," Alex continued. "He managed to break both of his legs, his wrist, and several ribs. Nice little concussion, as well. Considering the distance, and how jagged the rocks are there, I'm surprised you didn't find him dead."

"How... how did you even find me?"

"Traced your communicator. After we found out you'd fled the questioning, and skipped back here with the help of your friends—who are so, so _screwed_ , by the way—we didn't have much trouble locating you."

My head lolled from side to side, and I could feel the vibrations of the ship as we moved upward. The engines gave a gentle, comforting _hum_ as we levitated, and a low _whoosh_ as we sped off towards Los Angeles Medical.

"I get it, you're tired and stressed, but you gotta stay awake right now. It won't be much longer, Chris. Trust me. Stay awake," Alex finally said, and the back of his hand brushed the side of my face as he sat down.

I hadn't the mind to nudge his hand away as it rested there. "Feels... _awful_ ," I gasped as shadows encroached on my vision.

"Just hand in there, brother. Hang in there."

 ** _To be Continued..._**


	12. Chapter 11b

Alex ran his hand through his hair. It was bad enough that Chris was gallivanting around the country looking for his surviving blood relative, but they had both nearly gotten themselves killed from shock and hypothermia.

Nolan Pike was definitely going to make it. The boy was young and strong, and despite having been out here for quite some time without food or water, he was going to be alright with no lasting physical results. The doctors said that his arm and legs would likely heal up nicely over the next day or so, and he'd be able to get back to his home within the week. Only a slight surgery had been needed to correct the healing bones, and even that was minimal.

Chris, however, would likely not be so fortunate to have less than a week's stay. Alex shook his head as he watched his friend breathe—through a tube, no less. In and out, in and out. One and two. Two and one. Plain and simple. Breathing: That life-giving practice that was so simple that you didn't even need to think about it to do it, but so important that you couldn't live without it for so much as seven minutes.

Chris had been in bad shape when they'd found him to begin with. Completely unable to stand, and babbling incoherently. Something about a colony, Alex was fairly certain. The words came together to form odd strings of phrases that made no sense, except perhaps to Chris. It may not have been _insanity_ , per se—Chris wouldn't have been cleared to be interrogated if he were unstable—but that didn't mean that it didn't look pretty damn close.

Chris had been thoroughly sedated for the moment. He had to sleep off the events of the past few days. Well, the events of the past twenty-four hours would be bad enough. It seemed as though Chris couldn't catch a break. He'd gone into shock as they loaded him into the shuttle. He'd downright flat-lined halfway through the trip, and had to be resuscitated three times: once when they were on the shuttle, twice at the hospital.

It was almost unbearable to watch that, for Alex... There was just something about seeing his friend go through what he did that unnerved Alex to no end.

Alex had called Vina over what happened, and tried to comfort her saying that both Chris and Nolan were receiving the best care they possibly could. It was true, what he had said to her... so why had he felt so awful after saying it? Maybe it was just him... the stress and the shock of the past two weeks was really getting to him.

So, Alex stayed the entire remainder of the night with Chris, and then the entire next day. He shrugged off the ensign who had come to him from Starfleet Command asking him how long he would be staying there. He vaguely remembered telling the ensign that they would all be returning when Chris was stable enough to travel safely. The duties of the Admiralty could wait. Paperwork was even more boring than sitting in a chair watching someone breathe. Actually, paperwork was _much more_ boring when it came to Chris, because Alex almost expected that life-giving beep in the hospital room to cease at any given moment. This was his best friend they were talking about.

His best friend had nearly died more than three times in the past three weeks. That was a _problem_. So, Alex kept a vigilant watch over Chris as the younger man slept in his comatose state.

During that time, Alex had a lot of time to himself; time he used to think a lot. This whole thing, he felt, was pretty much his own fault. After all, he had given his official 'Okie-dokie' on the mission of aid to the Vulcans. It was his fault that so many cadets had lost their lives, that his best friend had been captured and tortured nearly to death. it was his fault, because he was the big man-in-charge. It was he who would have to answer for all of those kids who wouldn't be coming back home to their moms and dads and...

Another thought came to him in an instant. What if it had been his own daughter who had been on one of those ships? It could just as easily have been. Carol could have been killed as Nero tore the Federation ships apart, and the black hole finished the job.

Suddenly, he had a vague feeling of how Chris must feel about Shiloh's death. The soon-to-be-admiral didn't even have something of his brother to _bury_ , except maybe the NSS medal. Still, that seemed so ill-fitting. It frightened Alex that he himself could have so easily been put in that situation, except with his daughter.

The thought frightened Alexander Marcus, but for a reason he couldn't understand. Space was a dangerous place to begin with. Everyone knew that going in. You could die so easily and in so many ways on your tour of duty, that it was almost unreal how Starfleet ever got anyone to enlist. Still, it just felt like with insane men like Nero around, the whole galaxy just got a little bit bigger, and a hell of a lot scarier.

There were always people who wanted you dead, and there always would be, but still. You had to defend yourself... As he looked through the glass divider, he pondered the bitter irony of how well that had worked for Chris...

...

He blinked his eyes open, and promptly winced.

Arg. That felt familiar, didn't it? Then, of course, there was no one shining a flashlight straight in his eyes, and he wasn't on a ship, he was fairly sure. He was indeed on a legit bed, and he was almost tempted to roll over, curl up in the sheet, and go back to sleep. Almost.

He looked around momentarily to see a bright white room, and the scent of cleaners and ammonia through... was this an oxygen mask?

 _Oh, god! Hospital!_

Chris practically tore the mask off his face, and sat up straight. Yep. Definitely a bad idea. His head reeled, his vision swam, and he nearly retched. He looked straight ahead at the Starfleet insignia on the wall, in an attempt to stop the dizziness. It worked after a few moments, but his stomach was still doing unhappy back flips after the bus driver stopped the room so Chris could get off.

Then it fully dawned on him. Starfleet. _Crap_. They'd found him. He could have guessed as much that Kirk and McCoy hadn't gone through the proper channels.

Chris looked around again, slowly this time. It was a standard recovery room—small, and unimpressive. Nothing there except him, his bed, and a chair.

He sighed a moment, and realized that he was wearing a hospital shirt again. _Of course_ he was; they wouldn't let him keep his normal clothes while in the hospital. They would give him a _nightgown_ , instead. Obviously. Another thought occurred to him, and he quickly felt under the sheets. His hand caught blessed fabric.

Well. At least he had trousers. Being clothed was a matter of pride...

The door opened, and Chris saw Alex walk in and stride into the room and sit down on the chair.

"Glad to see that you're OK, Chris."

"Thanks." Instead of waiting for the other metaphorical shoe to drop, Chris decided to make him _walk_. "And?"

"You're a damned idiot." Alex glared at him.

Chris groaned. "I know. I should have never listened to those _stupid_ kids."

"Damn right." Alex leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Section 31 wants you charged with desertion. I'm trying to reign them in, but it's ongoing process."

"That... that won't stick at all," Chris said, shaking his head. " The men with Section 31 were threatening torture. Extenuating circumstances: self defense in reaction to attempted coercion. Plain and simple... Will the jury be on my side, or no?"

"Well," Alex tipped his head. "As far as I know, the vast majority of people around here either love you, or hate you. You're either a war hero, or a child murderer, it seems. Nobody seems to be able to make up their mind as to _which_ , though."

Chris sighed. "That's _dandy_. You do realize that if I am convicted-"

"You'll be executed, likely by phaser? M-hm. That's why I came to see you now."

"Oh, _thanks_ , Alex," Chris said, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm. "You prefer to give me the damned glass of hemlock now, or wait until I'm charged, and my career is ruined?"

Alex let out an exasperated sigh. "Dammit, Chris, you make it sound as if the universe is ending!"

Chris's titanium-blue eyes bored into Alex. "The universe _is_ ending! If I'm charged, it goes on my permanent record. I will lose _all_ of my credibility with _everyone_. Not even an _ensign_ would _ever_ accept an order from an alleged deserter."

"We can hide that sort of thing, you know."

"Hide it? _Alex_ , what are you even saying?" He laid back down on the bed. "I have standards, Alex... I'm not going to hide behind files. If they take me to the hanging... I'm going to nail my colors to the mast, and-"

"Chris," Alex interrupted him. "Section 31 _has_ made an offer. If you take it, they won't press charges—hell, they said they'd destroy all files pertaining to it afterward. You'll be able to live as if it never happened. Keep your name intact."

Chris lost a beat. Here be dragons. "What _is_ their offer?"

"You work with them," Alex didn't give Chris a chance to protest. "For six hours once every two weeks. All you'd need to do is remember stuff, and talk it out. It's like... like counseling. And it's for a good cause. We need to be prepared for anything else that comes our way. The agreement would last... six months, they told me. Then you're a free man."

Chris blinked at Alex, and held the stare in silence for a moment. He could tell, somehow, that a deal like that wasn't the kind of agreement that this _Section 31_ would make. This had 'Alexander Marcus' written all over it.

Christopher finally spoke, after a few moments of thought. "Blackmail. NO, _SH—_ "

"Christopher!"

" _NO_ , no, Alex. _Humor me_. Is that an agreement they came up with, or you came up with?" He gave an incredulous laugh. "Because that spiel you just gave sure as _hell_ doesn't sound like it was 'Take what I want when I want it' Section 31 talking right there. 'Anything else that comes our way'? You expect me to believe that you didn't have any part in it? For god's sake, Alex, you're _Starfleet's liaison_ with Section 31."

"Chris, I don't operate with impunity! There are very dangerous people in Section 31, and we're both right in the thick of this." Alex practically deflated in his chair. "That's the best they'd take, Chris. I've been busting myself just trying to get this past them."

"Alex, this is blackmail! You do realize that, right?"

Alex stood up quickly, knocking the chair over. "Oh, _come off it_ , Chris! I don't like this any more than you do!"

"Like _hell_ , you do!" Chris yelled as he rolled off of his bed, and onto the floor. He barely made it onto his knees before his lungs suddenly protested, and he went into a vicious coughing spell. A word flashed in his mind. _Pneumonia_? Just brilliant.

"Chris, this is for the greater good!" Alex hollered as he walked up to the man on the floor.

Chris remained belligerently silent as Alex stood over him.

"Think the cadets... think of your _brother_! How many more _kids_ have to _die_ —how many more people have to be _victimized_ by vicious _monsters_ like Nero before we decide to _do something_? Before we take the fight to _them_ for once?"

Chris looked up at him. A cough was threatening to break loose again, but he managed to keep his voice level, almost to the point of a whisper. "This is about Carol, isn't it?"

Alex's face went completely blank. He had obviously lost a step at getting called out.

"It's about Carol. You're scared...make that _terrified_...of what could happen to her out there, aren't you?" Chris continued to stare up at his best friend, and use that Psychology degree he had worked so hard for. "You want to be a good dad, and make sure that the universe is safe for your baby girl."

After a few moments of tense silence, "Wouldn't you?"

Chris slowly nodded, before another set of coughing wracked his (shockingly) thin frame.

"Chris, you know that I wouldn't even suggest this if I didn't think it was a good option."

Another moment of silence.

"I know," Chris leaned back against the bed in a sitting position. "I know it is. I just have a problem with it..." He put his head in his hands. "Alex, I'm not ready for that yet. You of all people should know that there's this...this _recovery_ time that you need, or you'll go nuts."

Alex gave a light laugh that was lost to the room. "Damn, Chris. First time I've ever heard you asking for a break. Never thought I'd hear those words out of _your_ mouth."

Chris shook his head. "I'm serious, Alex. That whole thing on the Narada... Don't kid yourself. It was _rough_. They do... _terrible_ things." He shut his eyes, and shuddered slightly as memories flooded back into his mind.

"Please, Chris... For both of our sakes, just do this. Please."

Chris's eyes blazed with indignation. " _Don't. Press. Me_."

Alex sighed deeply, before hoisting Chris back up onto the bed. "Just think about it, Chris. Think about it. Please? For all the kids who come after us. We can leave them this legacy, can't we?" He strode out of the room, and Chris was left to his own thoughts.

...

Alexander Marcus slowly walked down the hallway, contemplating the scope of his success. All in all, it was probably a pretty good chance that Chris would go through with it; much better than it would have been if someone else had broken the news to him.

Then again, it hadn't been an official answer.

He really didn't want to have to see his best friend go through something like that. After all, Chris was right. Any charges of that scale would be put on the future-admiral's record, and he wouldn't live it down, even if he was acquitted of all counts. It was definitely a career-ending blow. Chris had spent most of his life in Starfleet, and had an incredibly distinguished career, along the lines of Alexander Marcus, and the near-legendary Robert April.

Christopher Richard Pike had gone on more than seven tours of duty in deep space, the MedCorps, and with the Colony Relief-In-Emergency Corps. That was more than any other Starfleet officer- even most captains became Admirals behind desks after four or five tours. It was Chris's vision that practically created the _Enterprise_ , spurred the considerations for the reinstatement of the five-year-mission, and set James Tiberius Kirk on the path to what would obviously be greatness. So Starfleet really did owe Chris Pike, and Alexander Marcus bitterly reflected on how terribly they showed their gratitude as he made his way back to his office.

 ** _To be continued..._**


	13. Chapter 12

The day of Ceremony was one that Pike both dreaded, and welcomed. Dreaded because... well, firstly, he'd barely gotten seven hours in the Chair. The Enterprise was HIS ship, and he'd gotten a whole seven hours to command it before everything completely went to hell. Even the ships he'd gotten blown up (the _Viceroy_ , and the _Renown_ ), he'd commanded them for at least two years each—not a measly seven hours.

Not to mention that the _Enterprise_... well, that ship was his _baby_. It hadn't been his first choice of a dream command, but it was his legacy of the past ten years—ever since the _Endurance_ had been retired.

Pike had dreamed of commanding the _USS Endurance_ ever since he served aboard it under an aging Robert April as an ensign during his undergraduate years. Even if it was an outdated, seventy-something-old clunker, it was his very first posting, and that was like coming back to old familiar haunts. After the _Endurance_ was put to pasture, Chris was absolutely heartbroken... He had looked forward to commanding that ship for twenty years, but he hadn't managed to get transferred there before his dream ship was sent to the scrap yards of Thrissen-Alpha-2.

In order to get over the Endurance, however, Christopher Pike came up with the idea of designing, overseeing the creation of, and commanding a starship—what he would later call the _Enterprise_. One could call the _Enterprise_ his mid-life crisis (that... that _did_ make it seem far less magnificent...). It was _he_ who had edited the designs of the original Constitution-class ship to make it larger, more ergonomic, and even more formidable. It was _he_ who had convinced Alexander Marcus to commission the creation of the _Enterprise_.

Then, Pike had commanded it for a whole, extensive seven hours... Now he was just handing it away. Of all people he had to give it to; James Tiberius Kirk kept oscillating from the top of his personal list to its bottom.

Kirk, of all people… even if the boy _was_ a genius, _and_ a hero... He was sure one of the _dumbest_ geniuses Pike had ever met. Hell, the kid hadn't even bothered to get his _Master's degree_ yet—his command would never hold up under scrutiny if that ever happened... That's what Pike was a bit jittery about, when it really came down to basics. Kirk was practically his son, and he wanted the boy to succeed—he couldn't bear to see Kirk fall flat on his face (no matter _how_ amusing it was when he _did_ , _continually_ )... Still, despite the fact that Pike had personally overseen Kirk's education, he could only do so much. For being a genius, Kirk was completely and utterly stupid.

For Kirk's four years in the Academy, it seemed as if the young boy had his mind much more on _sex_ than he ever did on his studies. To be fair, that was a pretty accurate description of most Starfleet enlistees these days, but still. Christopher Richard Pike had high standards, and Mr. Kirk was very nearly the bottom of the barrel. He wasn't quite the very worst, but he _wasn't_ by the skin of his damned pearly-whites. After all, Kirk had only barely escaped washing out his very first semester- that was pretty bad, by anyone's standards. Nonetheless, Pike would concede with much frustration that Kirk was potentially the most infamous womanizer on campus. That was also NOT a compliment.

So, Kirk was basically his son, and he did show an enormous amount of favoritism (he tried not to—he _did_ ), but asking Kirk to relieve him as Captain of the Federation's flagship? That was just the drugs talking. Of course no one took that into account when they approved the promotion. Everyone took to heart the ravings of a drugged madman. Sure. Many sighs of exasperation were definitely in order over this.

He was well-drugged when the awards ceremony began. It wasn't as if he didn't want the drugs (he would be experiencing quite a bit of pain in his upper back if he weren't taking them) but still. He hated what those things did to his head and his disposition.

He had three words to say to Kirk to legitimize the transfer of power, and he said them.

"I am relieved."

They pinned a bright medal to Kirk's uniform... At that moment, Pike couldn't decide if he wanted to hug Jim and congratulate him on his achievement, or wipe that smug, arrogant-as-hell smile off of Jim's face with a fist.

He didn't do either of those. He simply gave a gentle, approving smile- the drugs again, he was almost certain. He just sat there (maybe there were a few words spoken otherwise, but if there were, he didn't pay them much attention) until they wheeled him back away.

...

"I can't believe I just did that," I mused.

"Sir?" my assistant, Everett Colin, slowed his pace.

"I just gave command to a _kid_... He's not much older than you, son, and you probably have a higher degree of education than he does." I put my head in my hands. "I just gave him a starship. I gave him _my_ ship. _MY Enterprise_... I'm an idiot."

"With all due respect, don't say things like that, Admiral Pike." Everett continued to wheel me down the hallway.

I blinked. _Admiral_. I would never be able to get used to being addressed as 'Admiral Pike', I was almost certain. I mean, I'd been a Captain for years and years. Seven tours as a captain- that was about thirty years. I'd served on so many starships... Knowing that I wouldn't be on the bridge of a starship hurt. Especially losing _the_ _Chair_ to _a_ _desk_ ; that in itself was incredibly discouraging. Knowing that I couldn't make a difference on the front lines anymore where I was needed hurt even more. I had always been a man of action, and, quite frankly, Starfleet admirals weren't particularly notorious for busting down doors like I was used to...

All the same, being able to pull rank on starship captains felt pretty damn _good_. I had been one of the senior captains by at least two tours, and most of the younger captains took my words as if they were orders... Still, they weren't actually orders, because we were the same rank. Now, it didn't matter. I was an admiral. My word was practically law when it came to a starship. I knew that I couldn't abuse that, for the sake of all the people aboard, but it still felt pretty amazing.

Admittedly, that excitement could have been a little something else, too...

 _"Honey," I said into the microphone on the PADD. "It's going to be awhile before I come home again. There's a bunch of things I have to straighten out. I'll be back in a week or two, and then we can do anything you want." I gently stroked the screen, even though I could practically feel her soft skin. 'It won't be much longer, love."_

 _"Well, you had better be right this time. I'm tired of thinking that you've died, Mister Pike. And you need to spend some time with us."_

 _"Us?" I blinked. "I thought Nolan went to New York City for a conference in the pre-grad program he's doing."_

 _"He did, but I mean... us."_

 _Vina made a strange gesture to her torso, and I'm fairly sure that I had an expression of utter confusion plastered on my face, because she laughed. It was that beautiful ring of laughter that seemed to make the whole past week of convoluted paperwork and office misery a little bit brighter. I gave a slight laugh- the first I had made in perhaps a week. "Seriously, Vina. What do you mean?"_

 _"I mean," she said, leaning forward towards the PADD. "That us_ two _are going to be us_ three _in a few months' time."_

 _I simply blinked at the screen. "Huh?" I thought a moment. "Wait a minute..._ Three _? As in—"_

 _"As in_ pregnant _, Mister Pike."_

 _I suddenly couldn't find any words in my mind that would come out of my mouth. Finally, I managed to splutter, "P-p-pregnant?"_

 _"Pregnant, Chris. Pregnant; as in 'with child'. Your child."_

 _I sat there for another moment of shocked silence. I barely managed to stammer out, "Wh-when did this happen?"_

 _Vina laughed, and I almost forgot that I was stuck at work in San Francisco, and running a temperature of a hundred and two. She was still smiling as she spoke. "When you were last on shore leave, Silly Buttons! I know that I haven't been able to tell you before now, because of everything that's been going on, but now that things are settling down, I figured it would be good to tell you...It's been a whole two months." She trailed off before her eyes took on a beautiful spark of mischief. "Surely you at least remember being there!"_

 _I laughed, before ending up into another harsh coughing spell. When I had finally managed to stop coughing, I continued. "Of course I remember being there!... I just didn't know-" I swallowed a suspicious lump that had risen in my throat."I mean, we've tried before, and nothing has ever come out of it. We've always thought- are you sure?"_

 _"As sure as morning sickness, I'm sure." She stroked the side of the PADD, and I could practically feel her soft hands on my flushed cheek. A tear squeezed out of my eye, and made a steady trial down my face. "Vina... Vina, that's wonderful! We're going to be parents!"_

 _I know that my joyous reaction to the news was fueled just as much by the learning of my impending fatherhood, as it was by the fact that I had been deceived otherwise so often, by doctors, or otherwise. We had always wondered if Vina was capable of bearing children... And then there was me (let's not go into that, yeah?)... Those facts alone made me even more desperate to see this child...this_ miraculous _flesh of my flesh..._

...

Hardly anyone in Starfleet even knew about the pregnancy by the time of the ceremony; I almost wanted to keep it that way. Of course Alex knew. He was one of my good friends, after all. He had congratulated me, and then proceeded to use that fact as a ploy to get me to agree to Section 31's deal. In all honesty, it worked this time.

Knowing that I was going to be a father myself... I didn't know how he did it, but Admiral Marcus managed to get me to agree to the terrible idea. I went along with it, and I _still to this day_ have absolutely _no_ idea why I went through with it. And I still did.

I regretted it from the second I stuck my John Hancock on that PADD form. I was not happy with Alex, to say the _least_ , and in that moment I don't think I had ever wanted so much to just _slap_ someone.

I didn't actually smack him, but I think that he got the idea when I gave him my 'Glare'. If looks could kill, it would have sent the Fleet Admiral flying across the room and through the glass window fifty stories up. Yes; I _am_ morbid. Sue me.

After that whole incident and the respective apologies, Alex distanced himself a bit from me for awhile. I think it was his way of making things up to me... To be honest, after blackmail-flavored shenaniganery like that, I was fine with that. He was still a friend, but the Section 31 incident left a bad taste in my mouth, as it went. We still talked; we were admirals, so we had to attend meetings, and crap like that. Outside of work, though, we didn't really converse much.

The ceremony came after I had spent a weekend back at home. I enjoyed it a lot—I spent quite a bit of time with Vina, Nolan, and who would be the newest addition to the family...

As far as work on the ranch went, I couldn't do much in the way of manual labor.(Ahem; wheelchairs _suck_.) Roger and Charlie had been managing well enough without me, anyways, though. So I did my best to organize the little things in the drawers, boxes and shelves (in addition to other such menial tasks) and they caught me up on news in Mojave as much as they could in a weekend. (Uh... When I say news, you know it means the latest gossip, right?)

All in all, it was very surreal to me to back on earth—even more surreal to be ground-bound. It was as if I was back being a Castaway again, and as much as I hated that feeling, I hated the idea that grounding would be, for the foreseeable future, infinitely longer. I enjoyed the time with my family, don't get me wrong...and yet I still found myself at night gazing up into the starry firmament, waiting and hoping for a flash of light from the sky and a miracle.

I am sad to report that there were no flashes of light during my weekend. However, Roger did remind me that there was indeed a miracle, and it was due in a little less than seven months. After that, I hoped to stop feeling quite so sorry for myself. (Also... Roger gave me a verbal lashing that may very well have been my own personal substitute for Purgatory, and _may_ have had something to do with my attitude change... Although, Roger will still insist that there is no Purgatory.)

...

I learned after the ceremony on my first day as an admiral that my assignment at the office would allow me to take the weekends off to go visit my family on the ranch, thus forcing me to be the family man I probably should have been a long time ago. So when I returned to San Francisco, even if I was still in pain most of the time, I had a lot to look forward to on the weekends.

Not to mention that I was also looking forward to something some months later…

Yes. I was _much_ too excited about that for my own good.

I can honestly say that my thoughts were much less on my promotion or my work or the fact that I was still being blackmailed by Section 31, and much more drawn to the little Starfleet boots that would be pattering around the ranch in a few years time. I began thinking about whether I would end up having baseball gloves or princess dresses at the house (which immediately led to thoughts of twins, for some obscure reason that I haven't the patience to recall). Horses were obviously a part of the equation; boy or girl, my child would likely be riding horses before their first steps.

By a strange twist, I also realized that now that I was an Admiral and otherwise unable to command a starship, I would have much more time to be home, instead of gallivanting about the galaxy like I had been for the past thirty years or so. I can't say that I regarded that as entirely negative, or entirely positive. I know that I did want to finally be an actual family man. I also know that I regarded my command as a second home. Thus, all I can safely say is that it created a rather strange dynamic for me; half of me was happy that I'd finally get to settle down, while the other half of me was still upset that I would likely never go out in space again.

The idea that I would never go out in space again... well, I had heard it before. As much as I did want to be with my family, I wasn't about to believe that bull. After all, I had sworn to myself after Elysium that I would never go back out in space, and here I was almost forty years later with a shining career in Starfleet...


	14. Chapter 13

Chris blinked his eyes open, and sat up on the bench in the train station as the bells rang to signal the arrival of the ride towards San Francisco. The eighteen-year-old grabbed his knapsack of belongings, and stood up, his legs tingling from lack of circulation. He jogged in place for a few seconds to get his circulation up as the train pulled in to the boarding platform. The train was practically empty—at this time of night, he didn't expect it to be full. No one got off, and no one else got on. He was alone on the wooden deck as he walked towards the lit interior. The streetlamp behind him flickered, and Chris gave a slight smile at it. It had been there for ages—no one ever bothered to fix it, because it always broke again, as if it had a mind of its own.

Christopher stood at the threshold of entering the train. A blast of artificially clean air flowed from the open doors. Somehow, the high-tech train with its temperature-controlled interior and filtered air just felt... wrong. Then, he was never much for being 'tech' kind of guy—not when he was a colonist trying to survive on Elysium, and not here in a nearly-backwater community in southern California.

Chris gave a fond last look around the pre-dawn train station. Mojave had been his home for only five years—and it still felt more like home than Elysium ever had. It was... it was home. It was him. He loved the desert. He loved the dry, dusty air. He loved the desperately hot days, and the cold, refreshing nights. Yet... the allure of space was calling him. He wanted to have adventure again.

So he stepped on the train.

...

Things never went his way. Even if he was eighteen and a legal adult... it just didn't go right. He had done everything that he possibly could to get offworld—trying everything from an internship to offering to be a manual laborer on a cargo ship. Still, because of his lack of experience, no one seemed to want him aboard.

Chris was stuck in San Francisco. He still desperately wanted to get on a ship, so he couldn't go back to Mojave. He had barely any education over an Associate's Degree in some obscure science that he would never use. Even if he was physically capable (for the most part- his right arm still ached from time to time), no merchants wanted his services even as a laborer. He was ground-bound, and he hated that.

He became desperate to get out—he went from ship to ship, appealing to anyone who was wanting to hire. Still, he received no job. After a month, Chris was out of money (money was... complicated, by the twenty-third century, by the way). By the second month, Chris was homeless and living on the streets at the Harbor. It stayed that way for longer than he would have liked.

...

Alexander Marcus had only been out for a walk at the Spacedocks. Technically, he was one of the younger captains responsible for recruitment in the Bay area, but the quota was well met, and he had just gone through almost the entirety of the City's underworld, looking for potential Academy recruits.

He had gone through his assigned district already, and he was really rather bored. There was quite a crop this year—he had been impressed. Probably a bunch of kids wanting to get away from these neighborhoods before the winter months really set in.

So naturally Alex had decided to take a walk in that part of town, which, in retrospect, was equally an excellent and a terrible idea. He was right next to the Red district, a place where almost no one went in, and even fewer ever left. No Starfleet officer would be caught dead within a mile of the place. It had a whole mess of homeless and other undesirables hanging around-a generally unpleasant place, which generally hated the Navy. So the run-down Harbor slums were _obviously_ a place to go looking for recruits.

Contrary to popular belief, all the world was not a utopia. There were still slums—downtrodden areas—as there was with any society. Sure, their lives had been somewhat improved by the Universal Food Distribution Act (the UFDA), as well its housing counterpart (the UHA), but there were some people who just couldn't find it within their means to improve though the tiers of society.

So he walked through the Red District as a starship captain (and please note that any member of Starfleet was at least on the upper half of society, if not the upper three-quarters), and received the incredulous, or even angry stares that were obviously due him. He continued walking, and reflected how terrible of an idea this was.

One of the defining moments of his life? It not only happened here; he literally _tripped_ over it.

"Hey, watch it!"

He had gone sprawling to the ground as his foot caught a mound of clothing that he thought was just clothing. Instead, the lump gave a muffled shriek and kicked him in vicious retaliation.

He hastily stood up, and hauled the sidewalk speed bump to its feet by the shoulder and shaggy brown hair. " _Oi_ ," the mass of clothing shrieked. "Stop that! Ow, ow, ow! Stop it! Can't a guy get some sleep?!"

Alex pulled the person's hood off, to reveal a young man—practically a boy. The youth was indignant- not to mention _filthy_ —and he looked and smelled as if he had been on the street for _months_.

"What do you think you're doing, laying there like that? You realize that you could have been seriously injured, right?" Alex stared at the boy and looked him over briefly... he saw tired, distant, bloodshot eyes, and anger pasted on the boy's face. "What's your name, son?"

The young brunette pried himself out of Alex's grip, and shook himself lightly. "Chris...What's yours... Star-boy?"

Star-boy. An _extremely_ derogatory reference to any member Starfleet... Alex grit his teeth at the insult. " _Captain_ Alexander Marcus, and I could haul you off to the police station right now for loitering, and I damn well _should_. It'd at least get you off the streets here and out of the way of trucks and things."

"Don't you threaten me," the youth hissed as he recoiled away from Alex.

"Then apologize."

Chris shot him a glare, before looking back down to the ground with a half-hearted, "Sorry."

Alex gave a snort. "Well, I guess that'll have to do. That's probably the best you can give me, anyways. Isn't it, you damned _junkie_?"

Chris looked at him through his eyebrows. "That's just _low_." And he attempted to administer a hefty blow to Alex's right cheek. Luckily, the boy was too slow for Alex's dodge.

Alex watched as the youth crashed onto the cement again—and was startled when the boy screeched, and held his right arm as if he'd been shot.

Alex walked up to the youth, and knelt down as the boy sat up, and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "What... what's wrong, kid?"

"My—my arm," Chris gasped.

Alex tipped his head in concern."You need a doctor, or somethin'?"

"No, no," Chris panted. "Just... a breather. it's from a long time ago." He groaned, and continued to massage the limb (which looked just fine to Alex, by the way).

Alex glanced around, particularly to the setting sun. as much as he wanted to keep talking, night came rather quickly in San Francisco this time of year, and he didn't particularly want to get caught out in the Red District alone.

"Say..." Alex began. "You got a place to stay? Cause I'm sure I can arrange something for you. Hell, we could even go back to my place—get you all cleaned up."

"So that I can get all dirty again when I come back around here? No, thanks. It's easier that way."

Alex gave an exasperated sigh. "Look. Kid—"

Chris shot him a glare.

" _Chris_ , I mean. Why don't we find a place to stay so that you can get your bearings back?" He snapped back into 'Captain' mode, and he formally introduced himself. "My name's Alexander Marcus... Y'know, you can get your life back on track. You just need a little push."

Chris's eyes glittered with humor.

Alex snapped out of captain mode as he realized his mistake. "You... you have me by the—"

"M-hm." Chris nodded quickly, and as much as Alex started to despise that mischievous glint, he couldn't help but think that it had a lot of promise.

"Thought so."

Chris simply continued as if Alex had said nothing. "Oh, 'Starfleet's Academy is just the push you need to succeed in life'," the youth mimicked and recited the schoolmarm video-posters that Starfleet set up in various places around the city. "Yeah. Heard that one before. Passed it by that time, too." Chris laughed. "What are you even doing, man? Why are you talkin' to me? Starfleet; _really_? Do you _really_ see me being some _idiot_ in a bright red spandex?"

"No, I see you as the type who knows the allure of space. I can see it in your eyes. I mean—that's why you're here, right? You want to go to space, so you stick around at the Harbor, probably trying to hitchhike, by the look of you."

Chris averted his eyes, and Alex knew instinctively that he had hit the issue on the head.

"I can get you into Starfleet Academy. If you apply yourself, I know that you can make it. You can graduate an ensign in four years with a Bachelor's in whatever you want, and even go on undergraduate tours before that. _Hell,_ you can have _two_ Doctorates, and your own _command_ in _ten years_."

Chris still said nothing.

"You look like a bright kid with a lot of potential," the captain commented as he put his arm around the boy, and began leading him towards the lighter side of town. "You're determined, and resourceful. You've got spunk, and intelligence. Starfleet could use more kids like you. I will _personally_ guarantee you that it is worth all of the time and effort that you spend. Ten years. What's the worst that can happen- lose a little time. You'll still have a degree and be able to do whatever you want. You'll only be _thirty_."

"Twenty-eight."

"Alright, then. Twenty eight. But I'm serious. I see you being a captain someday. Maybe even an Admiral, if you stick with it."

Chris immediately stopped, and Alex nearly tripped.

Skepticism practically rolled off of the boy's features.

"Alright, then," Alex reasoned. "Maybe we should just take it step by step. I think you could really... really make a difference, son. Look me up, if you get the chance," He handed the boy a small holo-card. Simultaneously, he also snapped a picture of the kid with a flip-camera.

Chris tapped the button on the card, and the display lit up with Alex's picture, and a registration number to call.

"Uh... thanks," the youth mumbled, before walking back the way they had both come.

...

"Computer, I need a database search of eighteen-year-old males named Christopher either currently living in San Francisco, or listed as vagrant," Alex said to the computer. His command was met by a string of digital chirps.

"There are twelve thousand individuals on Terra within the parameters of the inquiry. Please narrow search parameters."

Alex gave a hiss, and a loud expletive directed at the computer. "Limit search to white males... Brown hair and blue eyes. Six feet tall, or within two inches of that height on either spectrum... And vagrant, presumed to be living in the Bay area."

The computer let out a series of chirps as it narrowed the search. "There are one thousand, five hundred and fifty two individuals on Terra within the parameters of the inquiry. Please narrow search parameters."

Alex gave a sigh. There wasn't anything else that he could say to narrow it... His thoughts suddenly settled on something else. "Computer, how many of those items have registered arm injuries, serious enough to cause long-lasting residual pain? To the right arm?"

"There are seven individuals meeting those criteria."

"List them," Alex said, perhaps a bit too excited.

"Christopher John Holden, age 18, former residence: New York City, New York; now presumed to live in San Francisco," the computer said as it pulled up the visual file. It was a striking resemblance, but not Chris. Chris's face was stockier than that.

"Next?"

"Christopher Emmett Forsythe, age 18, residence: San Francisco, California." The computer pulled up yet another picture. This most certainly wasn't the Chris he had met. The face was all wrong- the cheekbones were broader and more pronounced, and the lips were too thin by a long shot.

The computer continued with a brief chirp. "Christopher Richard Pike, age 18, former residence: Mojave, California; he has been reported missing."

Alex nearly fell out of his chair when he saw the picture. He had found Chris. It was the same face, the same striking blue eyes... maybe a little younger in that photo- and most certainly cleaner, but definitely still Chris. "That's the one, Computer. Display record of Christopher Pike..."

...

 _Personal Log, Admiral Marcus; Stardate 2258.269... Continued from two hours ago..._

 _The rest, as they say, is history. Chris Pike had joined up with Starfleet not three days after his talk with me._

 _I learned much more about him during his time in Starfleet Academy. For example, he had grown up on Elysium, lived through the fires, and received a Medal of Valor when he was twelve (which is a record, by the way). He was an equestrian. He was sharp as a tack._

 _He was also better than me. Chris Pike broke my record for the fastest rise to captaincy. Then he outshone me in almost every way as a captain... But he didn't revel in it—he seemed to only be interested in the work... So I remained friends with him, and he remained the best decision I'd ever made._

 _Then, of course, the entire situation with Kirk—a bum of a kid, rescued by a decorated Starfleet recruiter who had happened on him and took pity... I guess that it reminded Chris all too much of himself. It was just too familiar when he saw Kirk lying there, I quote, 'belly up on a bar table, getting the tobacco juice pounded out of him.' I think that he saw in Kirk that same potential I saw in him all those years ago... I also think he saw a strange greatness in a beaten, bloodied form that reminded him of his long-dead friend, George Kirk. He saw that spunk, and the intelligence. (The extra helping of reckless stupidity was sort of an added afterthought, evidently.)_

 _It's almost uncanny, the similarities between Chris Pike and Jim Kirk. Chris Pike had broken my personal record of ten years to become a starship captain, lowering the bar down to eight. Jim Kirk... Technically, he shouldn't even have been a captain, because he didn't have so much as a Master's Degree in anything, but he still rose to the rank of Captain of a starship in literally four years because of his heroism—a new top record... As much as it pained Chris to relinquish his beloved record, I know for sure that he was still damned proud of the man he had helped into Starfleet. If he had seen a little too much of himself in the young blonde—was that really such a bad thing? After all, Chris had started off as a little bratty punk, and turned into one of the best officers that Starfleet has ever seen. I've been more than proud to have Chris's name linked to mine._

 _These days, though, I'm getting a little apprehensive about where Chris Pike's loyalties lie. Ever since this whole debacle with Section 31; it hasn't done anything for any of us, other than prove how much Section 31 really does control the scene from the shadows... How much it controls my life, and Chris's._

 _I dearly hope to this day that this ordeal hasn't damaged our friendship. Chris may have a circle of friends to keep him company, but it gets lonely for me at the top, and he's been the one who has stuck by me... even more than my wife did._

 _Nonetheless, as much as I appreciate Chris's initiative in diplomacy, I have to say that Admiral Pike is getting a little too friendly with one of our newest recruits into Section 31. I've already taken the precaution of forbidding the new operative from speaking of his past, but I can't help but think that it will come out sooner or later. At which point, we are all officially_ screwed _, because Chris has always been a chivalrous type. Always. It doesn't matter what it is—he always seems to take the moral high ground on these issues. Some sort of Jimmy Cricket, he is, trying to help out every little Pinocchio in the world._

 _And honestly, with how little time Chris spends at Section 31, I have no idea how they met... I still don't like this combination one bit._

 _If Chris Pike is that match that exposes shadows for what they are, then John Harrison has got to be the gasoline..._

Alexander Marcus tapped the button to stop the recording, and grabbed his coat as he stood up to leave for the night. He paused to slip the datacard out of the computer and into his pocket. Maybe it was just his own paranoia that created that mistrust of the man who was formerly his best friend, but nonetheless. He took one last long look at the computer screen as his thoughts drifted before he strode out of the room.

...

I walked (hobbled) through the corridors of Section 31's building. I wasn't supposed to be roaming around, but I couldn't help it. It was boring in the room they'd stuck me in for a recess (plus, said little room looked an _awful_ lot like a holding cell, and I really, _really_ wanted to put them off).

So I took a walk down the halls in my crutches. Yes, I was back to crutches and braces by this time. It had been several months since the _incident_ with Nero, and I was back to hobbling. Admittedly, though I was walking, it still wasn't very pleasant by this time. I had to go in for more surgeries that tried to increase motor function or decrease pain, and for all my trouble never seemed to come to fruition (it seemed like a surgery every month... though now that I think about that, it's much more frightening in retrospect than it was at the time). All of that said… I was still stuck with quite a bit of pain in my legs, and a lot of post-surgery exercises that annoyed me to no end.

I was nonetheless walking (and scaring the people from Section 31 half to death by practically vanishing [which was always fun, by the way]).

Today, my little illegal stroll took me through the Research and Development sector. I had been told that this was where all the concepts that I put forth in my talks with the therapist about my time aboard the Narada ended up. Of course, most of what I remembered entailed weapons capable of destroying planets, and such. The terrors of my nightmares were quite literally being turned into templates for weapons of mass destruction. I don't know if that was a comforting thought to know that some good would be coming out of my own personal slice of the world's miseries, or frightening, because I have some pretty horrifying nightmares as it is.

Of course, they told me, the weapons are only to be used for the defense of earth...yeah, I was a little skeptical of that, too. Nonetheless, I was stuck, because I had been blackmailed. Luckily, I was on the tail end of my tenure here… only two months or so to go…

Now, there was something odd about this whole situation, and the sensation of it had only grown since I had first become involved. Alexander Marcus had been a good friend of mine for over three decades, and I _thought_ that I knew him well enough. Evidently, I really didn't. He had grown very distant in these past four months that I'd been involved with Section 31, almost recluse. I know that I may have been a bit _cold_ toward him at first, (he _did_ have a rather large part in blackmailing me)... but my personal opinion would hold that his offense was mostly unwarranted.

I'm friends with the man, because he's always been pretty lonely...I mean, I was the one witness to his wedding, and the one witness to his divorce. I was the godfather of his daughter, Carol, and I was practically a functional uncle to the little girl, until her parents' divorce when she was... four, I'd like to say? So I knew Alex pretty well from before, and as much as I hate to say it, blackmailing was a pretty... _normal_ thing for Alexander Marcus to do. Distancing himself from the one guy who was pretty much the only person in Starfleet who sat him through a tenuous marriage, a terrible divorce, a demotion for dishonorable misconduct, several disciplinary tribunal hearings, and all of his bull that he gave out on a regular basis? No. That was definitely _not_ within Alex's standard behavior. It shocked and concerned me, to say the least.

I had heard more rumors flying around, about Alex finding a new 'lover' to replace me. Honestly, his finding a new friend who was rumored to come from a cryostasis pod didn't put me off. At least, it didn't put me off nearly as much as the fact that the whole 'lover' issue was being resurrected from the seventh-level-of-hell we _thought_ we had _damn well laid it to_ _rest in_. (Uhh... Long story short, some stupid Academy Cadet decided to make up a stupid joke about Alex and I being lovers, or something or other like that about twenty-five some-odd years ago. Despite his getting court-martialed and kicked out of the Academy for slander and libel, the slander stuck, and we've been trying to enact damage control ever since.)

I pondered these, and a whole host of other issues in my mind as I walked down the hallway. I'd always been a little heavy on the thinking side of things, by the way, despite the fact that I'm still a man of action. Although it's not helpful in a firefight, it does help when you have to convince a whole tribunal of senior admirals to let you stay in Starfleet after having broken the law in what is likely the most spectacular way possible… And that is a tale for another day.

Suddenly, an open door in the hallway caught my eye, and I slowed enough to look inside. I saw the profile of a man sitting at a desk, fully absorbed in his work. He did not stir as I watched him.

The man had a lithe frame, with taut muscles rippling beneath the close-fitting black Starfleet uniform. The man's eyes scanned the PADD back and forth as he continued to move the stylus along the glass surface. His fluorescent blue-green eyes glittered with intelligence and something else that I couldn't quite put my finger on. It was almost primal, I could have said at first glance. Black hair combed neatly to frame the elegant, smooth skin of his face- a face that looked as if it were chiseled from marble... An excellent specimen of humanity, I would be led to believe. Upon second glance, I amended my first assessment with, _if he weren't so pale_.

I simply watched as the man worked... His movements were so precise...so calculated. The stylus flew across the PADD in set ways—every movement was precise and broken. Despite an almost inherent grace that followed his every action, his head and eyes moved in spontaneous and almost machine-like motions. For a moment, I wondered if he was even real flesh-and-blood.

I couldn't quite see what he was working on, but that was alright, I suppose, since the Section 31 guards found me not five seconds after I stopped at the doorway. The guards' arrival drew the man's attention to me; he tilted his face a fraction of a degree in my direction, and brilliant aqua eyes met mine for a brief moment. I could have sworn I saw helplessness, or even desperation engraved in his face. He immediately turned back to his work as soon as the Section 31 soldiers arrived in the doorway.

I immediately thought that this reaction was a lack of concern, but upon a second thought as the guards hauled me away, it wasn't disdain that drew beads of sweat out onto his forehead and gave a dangerous, flighty spark to his intense gaze. That was fear.

…

I thought over the new development for quite some time, even after I left Section 31. Maybe it was because I'm a psychologist, and tend to be able to read people, or maybe it was just me being the busybody that I am.

It seemed odd to me that a simple analyst (or whatever he was) would be so frightened about Section 31, especially since he worked for them. If he worked for them, he shouldn't be absolutely terrified of seeing someone else in the halls, should he? Then, of course, I technically worked for Section 31, and I was scared to death of those people. There was a _chance_ at _least_ that this man was in something of the same position I was. I'm not sure if that me happy that there was someone else who understood me, saddened that there actually was some poor sucker who could understand me, or just angry at Section 31.

Still, I promised myself that I would go and talk to him sometime—I didn't know exactly when, but sometime. Unfortunately, thoughts of the man at the desk passed out of my mind as soon as I reached Mojave, and didn't come back.


	15. Interim

_You lean forward into the viewport of the shuttle to get a full grasp of the sheer size of the massive ship, the Narada. Yeah. It's big, exactly to the specs (i.e. really,_ really _damn huge) of the reports that you looked at when you had to write your dissertation. Maybe some poor eighth-year cadet will write their dissertation about you after this all goes down, you think smugly._

 _Surely this was one of the worst ideas in the history of thought. But maybe you're noble. Maybe you're sacrificial... Hell. Maybe you're just downright_ stupid _. Or perhaps insane, because it sure seems like you are. After all, who even_ does _stuff like this? Certainly no one with even half a lick of sanity would accept an obviously ominous invitation from an obviously homicidal Romulan to go for tea and cakes...which is obviously code for a brutal interrogation,_ and _the whole damned bag of chips. And of course you aren't thinking straight— since when do members of Starfleet eat chips, and since when do they come in bags? Since the end of the twenty first century, you think, because your brain tends to come up with utterly useless trivia (and is otherwise altogether_ weird _) like that when you're under pressure, and_ dammit _, why does your collar all the sudden feel seven shirt-sizes too tight? Obviously some infernal concoction of your mind to distract you from thinking about the fact you're obviously walking into your doom. And you're walking about eight hundred other people into their dooms— oh, and by the way: It's all your fault, too._

 _And so when you slowly make your way into the docking bay, you can't take your eyes off of the strange and futuristic alien technology that you want to study and ask how it works, and you know you never will, for rather... obvious reasons. Firstly, because you are so, so, so screwed, and it's not gonna make a single lick of difference, because you're going to be deader than a doornail likely within the hour. Secondly, where the hell does that fascination even come from? This is a massive enemy ship— there's no reason why you want to learn about it for science._

 _And so as you walk through the shuttle, you momentarily list all the little things that make life beautiful that you are never ever going to see again. For example: Creosote bushes, horses, desert sand, pale orange rocks, adobe, stucco, and non-replicator food... among many other things that you will miss about being... well,_ alive _. Kirk's confident stupidity, and Spock's calm order, Puri's smile... Your wife. Your nephew. Your brother, for that matter. But then again, maybe you'll see your brother sooner than you think. You smile slightly, reveling an absolutely unreasonable amount in your little world of blissful denial, and descend the shuttle ramp._

 _You never even see the tri-headed spear before it has embedded itself in your stomach, and you fall to the ground in a writhing, convulsing heap. Your blood sprays the floor and spews in voluminous amounts out of your mouth, but you manage to hear a raucous, unholy laughter just before the world falls away into the swirling darkness..._

Waking up screaming your head off isn't the way sleeping usually goes, trust me. It just isn't. For most of my life, I've had fairly normal dreams. I've had a fair share of nightmares, as well, but usually they aren't vivid or violent, or traumatizing. So if you've ever heard me say differently, then disregard that, because those nightmares _scared the hell_ out of me.

The issue wasn't the fact that I was back on the Narada, the issue was that things very easily could have _gone_ that way. I could have ended up bleeding out on the deck of the Narada. And it almost seemed like that could have been more merciful.

Nonetheless, it was not exactly my idea of a walk in the park.

...

"Chris?" Vina had woken up to an empty bed. He was there before, but now he wasn't. She shifted her hand to his side, where the blankets still shielded the fitted sheet from the cool air in the room. The sheets were still warm, if only slightly. And Chris's crutches were gone— there was no silvery glint where there should have been. Vina slowly sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand, her pale nightgown falling around her ankles. She slowly walked to the door and opened it, looking down the hallway and spying a light on in the vicinity of the kitchen. So that's where he was.

She slowly walked down the hallway, and as soon as she cleared it, she saw him leaning against the kitchen's half-island, his back to her as he seemed to look silently and vacantly into an expansive nothingness

"Chris?...Oh, Chris..." she trailed off as she walked through the sitting room, and into the dining area adjacent to the kitchen. They stood there for some time, Vina simply standing there, gazing at her husband, and Chris blankly staring at the wall.

He was clad in his pajama wear, which consisted of antique-style hospital scrubs, but he was also barefoot, the metal braces suddenly appearing very cold against the white tile floor. She slightly shivered— it was actually rather chilly tonight in the house at the moment, easily in the lower 50s Fahrenheit. Nonetheless, he remained entirely motionless, simply leaning against the counter as he sipped a glass of light amber liquid.

"Chris," she said in a near-whisper. "Honey, it's almost three in the morning... How long have you been awake?"

He sighed lightly, and still didn't make eye contact. "I know it's late... I just can't... can't get things out of my head. They just _don't go away_ ," he muttered as he drew the glass to his lips again, and grunted at the sting of the alcohol.

Vina didn't exactly know what to do at this point. Sure, she was his wife of upcoming on thirty years, but she somehow just couldn't shake the feeling that this was something far different than she had ever witnessed him dealing with. "Chris... this is the second night in a row that you've had the night terrors, and you've had them consistently for months now. Do you think it's time to see someone about it?"

Chris shook his head, but continued to stare at the far wall. "I have a degree in psychology. I know Post-Traumatic-Stress when I see it...and another shrink's opinion is not going to help," he down the rest of the brandy in his glass, and his attentions turned to the bottle itself.

Vina's eyes locked onto the bottle as well, almost tempted to swipe it away from his reach.

Suddenly, he rubbed his eyes and growled a nasty curse under his breath. "Can't... can't see anything when I wake up. Just... my eyes are all _misty_. It used to be that it would leave by the time I'd showered... now it doesn't clear up until after breakfast."

That was a new development; Vina had known that he'd had trouble seeing recently, but he'd told her that it was a normal (albeit unpleasant) effect of the stimulants he'd been given—it was superficial, according to him...

"Oh, the doctors told me there's nothing they can do about it, that it was a reaction of the toxin to the antidote... but it just gets worse and _worse and worse_ ," his voice had cracked by the time he finished, and he was shuddering as he drew trembling hands up to wipe away the tears that he would promise later weren't forming in his eyes.

Vina was immediately by his side, her arms curling around his broad shoulders, her hands trying to massage the tenseness out of them.

He turned his head to look straight at her, and Vina was shocked to find that his gaze was still vacant and unseeing. "I can't— I can't go blind. I can't. I've already lost my legs, I can't lose my eyes, too. I've still got to provide; I'm only fifty-two! I can't retire yet. "

Vina shook her head, and stilled her hands. "Oh, Chris. You... don't put that on yourself. Even if you did have to retire from Starfleet, you could do something else, and not for the funds... With how many years of service we've both put in, the Navy pension would be more than enough to maintain the ranch; you know that as well as anyone. And if we ever did need money, the horses—Chris, you still have the best stock in the county." She shrugged slightly. "And you have the farmhands— Indio Holt will be joining the Robertson twins in just a little while, and Stokes won't be retiring for at least another few years... You do realize that you're one of the biggest industries here in Mojave these days, right?"

Chris sighed. "I'm not ready for civilian life yet. I'm just...not."

"You don't have to even stay here; you have your own... the _Rouyn-Noranda_ is a good ship. You could go anywhere in it... you wouldn't be ground-bound; I know how much you've hated being trapped without your ship."

Her husband nodded slowly. "I know that you've liked having me here, but..." He trailed off, wanting to avoid getting into a fight now.

Vina nodded. "I get it. The long-distance relationship worked, and when it wasn't that, we were always away from earth, on the _Rouyn_ for a sabbatical." She gave a light laugh, and shifted to rest her head on his chest. "I know that you go nuts stuck here on earth. You've always had your head in the stars."

Chris rested his chin on the top of her head. "Yeah...Yeah." He slowly shook his head, and went for the bottle of brandy, putting back beneath the lip of counter. Without another word, he began walking back towards the bedroom, the _tap, tap, tap_ of his crutches resounding in the otherwise silent house.


	16. Chapter 14a

It wasn't until a couple weeks later that I managed to find the strange man from Section 31 again. This time, my little stroll wasn't as prohibited as it had been before.

I was permitted to go for a walk around the facility. My movements were still monitored by cameras, and I couldn't enter especially restricted areas, but other than that, I was free to come and go as I pleased within the building for about an hour's recess.

So I found myself in the Research and Development area once again. I didn't find much of anything that I deemed could be interesting to me this time around, except for a few white-coated scientists with half a dozen styluses in each pocket protector. Yes, it was very cliché. Of course, working in the sterile grey halls of the Sector 31 headquarters is like that.

This time, the man who was formerly at the desk was sitting on a couch inside the room, and I slowly walked inside to take a closer look. He seemed much more relaxed just laying there, his hands clasped and his eyes closed. His light, regular breathing evidenced sleeping (at least a little nap), and it almost made me wonder if the poor man worked and lived out of this little room. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, he sat up against the armrest, he drew his legs up nearly to his chest, and he thrust his hand into the couch cushions.

I'll admit that I was slightly taken aback—especially since I had thought that he was napping. He still had more surprises for me. His hand returned from the couch cushions with a slab of glass. Even when he was _resting_ , he had access to a PADD. His stylus tapped and swiped the glass so quickly it seemed like Morse code, all evidence of the previous relaxed state erased from his manner and his enthusiastic _tapping_.

Suddenly, he stopped cold, and the PADD tipped over against his legs. His head turned slightly to look at me, as if he'd just noticed me for the first time.

"What?" His voice was undeniably accentuated by a Lower London dialect—Hammersmith, I would be led to believe.

I made no immediate response to his remark other than a shrug.

His eyes scanned me, as if he were evaluating my intentions, or sizing me up. After he was finished with his little deduction, he returned his attentions to the PADD. I simply watched him as he worked. He seemed edgy with me around, just as he had been when I had seen him before.

"Does my being here put you off, or something?" I finally blurted out, in a desperate attempt to get at least a few words out of him.

"Yes," The man huffed as he stood up from the couch, and walked to a small fridge.

My face was frozen in a slight state of shock, but he simply began to dig in the icebox. I just blinked as he gave a strangely contented warble and pulled out a small bottle of milk. Milk—of all things—he was drinking _milk_.

"Uh... you don't do replicators?"

He gave an amused laugh, obviously at my expense. "Do you?"

I shrugged. "When I have to, I do. I like farm fresh, though. Replicator food kinda has a strange taste when you learn what's actually involved in it."

He uncapped the bottle, and took a few sips. "I'd believe that."

I gave a slight tip of the head. "Look, I'm just trying to be friendly-"

" _Friendly?_ " He stared at me incredulously as he drew the bottle down to shoulder height and licked his lips delicately. "'Friendly' is a word incompatible with this place—with the people who work here. By direct extension—what are you doing here; what do you want from me? If you're here to check my progress, rest assured that I am no further along than when your people _last checked_. If you're here to appeal to my emotions, please know that I have none."

I slowly walked to the desk, and angled myself to lean against it and still face him. "I'm not trying to manipulate you, or micromanage you, or anything. I just want to get to know you. Does that really warrant you practically biting my head off, hm?"

The man bristled at me, and his eyes glittered as if he were wondering if he should talk to me, or kill me on the spot. I am pleased to announce that he opted for the former.

"I don't understand. I've done everything that you asked me to—why won't you just let them go?" I could hear that his voice was suddenly thick with sadness and stress—something I didn't quite understand.

"Them?"

"Don't play dumb—it doesn't suit you," the man spat savagely before slamming his hand against the wall. "My _crew_. My _family_. You lock me away where I can't see them, and you threaten them so you can control me—and for _what_? The raving lunacies of a madman, hell-bent on starting a war?" He took another ginger sip of the milk before he continued. "You expect me to call you any better than he, because you're trying to 'protect people'? Ha!"

His voice was nearly frantic by this time, and I could tell that there was definitely something afoot. And the fact that he was referring to a 'raving madman' who wasn't me.

"Your crew... was taken from you?"

"Held hostage," he spat as tears threatened to spill down his sharp cheekbones. "I'm surprised that the likes of you doesn't know. You who works for Section 31."

I gave a snort. "You're working for them, too, in case you didn't notice."

"Not by _choice_ ," the man near-screeched. "If I had my choice we'd be far, far away from here!... but you wouldn't understand that, would you?" He finally laid back down on the couch, but he turned himself to face away from me. I could hear the labored breathing of tears.

I finally spoke, after several minutes of near-silence. "I understand it better than you know. I was blackmailed into helping Section 31. I still have people to look after, too."

His head tipped slightly in my direction. I had just made a connection—something that both he and I had in common: A distaste for Section 31 and the people who made our lives so miserable. That was the first step to potentially a friendship.

"What... what's your name?"

"John." the man said, his rumbling baritone quiet and almost undetectable to the whirring of the computers in the room. "John Harrison,"

"Chris Pike," I said softly. "So... what are you working on? If it's not classified, of course."

"Of course it's not classified... not to an Admiral, anyways," he motioned backwards to my lapels. "And anyways I'd share it with you even if you weren't." He pulled up his PADD again, and handed it to me. "A spin on the Second-generation Constitution-class," he explained with obvious tinges of pride on the edge of his voice. "Same design and proportions, but twice as large, twice as fast, and three times the firepower. Dreadnaught-class, we're calling it. It's a war vessel. A battleship, of sorts. I've called its prototype the _Vengeance_. It and more of its kind will be the backbone of the new Navy."

I looked over the designs. They were still quite sound, but something about his last statement put me off right away. "New Navy? What do you mean?"

John sat up and faced me. "You don't know about it?" His brow was deeply furrowed. "I assumed everyone did," he seemed to add as an afterthought. "Admiral Marcus believes that a war is imminent. He thinks that it is to be against a rather ambiguous 'Them'... though I have no idea whom he refers to. He wishes to beat 'Them' at their own game—fire the first shot, and thus give the Federation a tactical advantage."

I gave John an incredulous stare, and for multiple reasons.

Firstly, those designs weren't just anyone's. As stated before, I practically did everything for the _Enterprise_ except for build her myself. The original Constitution-class ships were small, angular, clunky, and looked like something out of an antique comic book; this design had massively different proportions... not the same measurements, but exactly the proportions I had elongated for the speed and maneuverability that I had intended to give the _Enterprise_.

These were _my_ designs. Based on the _SS Endurance_ , but still _my_ designs. Here they were going to be used to wage war, not for exploration. They weren't intended to be used for war. That wasn't what I had meant for them—it wasn't what I had wanted. I had heard of the usage of a certain thing being changed after the artisan died, and now I know why they waited until the guy kicked. No one would want their work being used to condone or perform actions that they didn't approve of. John Harrison was changing the Constitution-class ship blueprints to use them for war; my designs would be used for killing and destruction.

The thought disturbed me more than just a little bit.

Secondly, Starfleet would _never_ endorse a first-strike policy. They always maintained a peaceful outer shell, even if false at times. As far as I had been in the Navy (about three decades, mind you) the Federation never had really desired to keep a first strike ability. That may have been a bad idea, but it was just what they felt led to do. First strike was something that other civilizations did, not us.

The thought of Admiral Marcus acting alone to shore up the Navy with battleships... I wasn't entirely in favor of the idea, but, I realized, nor was I averse. A strong navy was important to keep trading lanes open, and to ensure safety... the only problem was when it was used for the wrong motives. As far as I could tell from what John was saying, Alex definitely had the wrong motives.

"You look like someone just slapped you," John finally said, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"I feel like someone just did. No one else knows about this—no one at all. Plus, those are _MY_ designs. I gave them to my Legacy ship, the _Enterprise_."

John glanced at me, as if trying to decide if I was lying or not. "You were the original architect?"

"Well, not completely." I gave a slight shrug, and leaned forward back onto my crutches before settling down into the chair at the desk. "I didn't actually design the original ships... but second-generation Constitution-class? Yeah. I was the one who made the proportions all crappy and nigh-impossible to translate into real physics."

He gave a laugh. "I understand that," he mused simply. "I think that the people building this will certainly have a time trying to decipher it..."

I shifted in my seat slightly at the discomfort that had suddenly materialized in my legs.

John's face grew distant, his eyes slightly unfocused. "I still do not think that I understand entirely how I came to be here. We were told that when we were awoken again, humanity would need us again... Their arrogance would be gone, and they would realize that they were _nothing_ without us. That they were inevitably fated to destroy themselves without us to create peace and prosperity." He blinked as if he were suddenly back from a daydream, sighed, and took another sip of his milk. "Now I find myself in a galaxy about to be embroiled in war, but the man behind it simply wishes to exploit me for his own benefit."

I decided, against my better judgment, to pry. "Exploit?"

"Yes," John said levelly. "Exploit. Exploit the powers of the Augments. Exploit the fact that we're better."

Somehow, my formerly joking mood all but vanished, and my next words were spoken in a dangerously level voice."Better?"

"Yes. _Better_." A beat, before he continued. "At _everything_. We _Augments_ are better at everything. Thought, engineering, combat, strategy, ethics... We're better at humans in _every_ way that matters."

I nearly bristled at his remark about ethics.

I remembered the name 'Augments' from old history courses, but I couldn't believe how I didn't see it before. Augments: Genetically engineered humans intended to dominate and/or slaughter their less fortunate, non-altered brethren. Yes, the results of the Eugenics Projects were more durable, and supposedly more intelligent than normal humans, but more _ethical_? If one could call mass genocide for the benefit of 'natural selection' _ethical_ , then _hell_ , why not?

The Augments had allegedly all died out after the Eugenics Wars, or they had been forced into exile. Honestly, I still have no idea how I was in the presence of a literal piece of history... Nonetheless, I was quite sure that it was indeed an 'Augment' in front of me, complaining about circumstances and the powers-that-be.

I wasn't sure whether to be scared out of my wits, upset about his flippant remarks about how superior Augments were to humans, or in awe of the fact that I was likely speaking to one of the great dictators of the Eugenics Wars.

I tipped my head slightly. "Why is Alex doing this? I mean... regardless of who is being exploited. Starfleet would never sanction anything like this. If they knew-"

John cut me off, his eyes blazing. "They _won't_ know. Section 31 is far too good at hiding their tracks to fall to something like that. They specialize at keeping things hush-hush." He paused for a few moments, before speaking again. "You called him Alex. Is he a friend of yours?"

I blinked. "Well... sort of," I managed. "It's complicated. He's been a friend for more than thirty years, but...He's gotten distant. Distracted. Hostile, on occasion," I admitted.

John gave a slight nod. "Are you going to do anything about it? Because if no one else is going to, there's nothing to stop him from _starting_ a war. I gather that you don't want that, but..." he looked down. "I... I'm not capable of stopping him right now. I'd need to spirit my crew away before he can kill them all. Is there any way that you could... get him to listen to you? You've been his friend for a long time; he might listen to you..."

I gave a slight nod. "Perhaps." I stood up. "I'm going to be leaving soon, because my obligatory time is almost over, so... I don't know if I'll see you again, but I'll try to keep in contact... And I'll see if there is any possibility of my convincing him that this is a bad idea that'll never work."

John gave me a nod, and a half-smile.

I supposed that was all the thanks I would ever get out of him.

...

John and I stayed in touch. Even after I left Section 31, I made it a habit to see him when he was available.

I wish that I could say that things got better from there, but they really didn't. Despite my prodding him for information at meetings and such, I couldn't seem to convince him to hear me out regarding John. It was all speeches about 'greater good', and 'obligation to serve the future', and 'what's coming at us next'. To be honest, after about a month or so, I gave up trying to convince Alex against screwing around with Section 31, and just went straight to John to see if I could help make his life a bit more tolerable.

It was mostly just simple things: Care packages of recreational PADD programs donated by Nolan (video games), a constant supply of bottles of non-replicator milk, homemade cookies, non-issue clothing, non-issue toiletries—the little things that make life a little more pleasant. Another one of those little things was convincing his handlers to let me bring him to Mojave for the weekend. Quite a weekend it was.

...

"I... don't see the point of this trip."

I looked at John in a sideways glance, and our eyes met.

"The point is that you need a vacation once in awhile. You've never been to Mojave, you've not met my family, and-probably worst of all-you've never ridden a horse. Those are all things that I hope to rectify in this trip."

He stared at me blanky. "You went to all that trouble of paperwork and security so that you can teach me to ride a horse?"

I gave him a slight smile. "Well, you could put it like that, but the real issue is the fact that you don't ever get a break, and you need one every once in awhile."

The train ride had been not-at-all exciting. In fact, it had been about two hours of a strangely awkward silence between me and my guest.

Finally, the train began to slow at our stop. I slowly stood, and pulled myself forward on the arm crutches. John stood as well.

To be entirely clear, I couldn't help but notice the sheer power contained in John's movement. Every single action was performed with grace and an incredible inherent strength. Yeah, that's a little weird (especially for me), but just thinking about it a little, I couldn't help but notice it. I'm the proud holder of a PhD, alright—I see stuff like that and analyze it. Every single one of his movements was calculated and brilliantly controlled. Every movement was executed in such a way as to convey dominance and control.

John was not exactly a big guy, at least not from my standpoint, when I was standing at full attention. (...Although having a cane is not what you need for appearing physically imposing. Just saying.) John was _barely_ six feet tall, and didn't exactly have a huge shoulder margin. We were about the same height and build, actually, and that made it even stranger that he seemed to inhabit a space that was at least several inches taller than his true height. I can only attribute it to the massive amount of confidence that practically rolled off of him; whenever he moved, there was a certain air of bravado that seemed to follow him around.

Before anyone asks, no, I never gawked. No, I was never jealous. Yes, that assessment was purely professional. And I don't care _what_ Kirk said.

We stepped onto the train platform, and I gave a slight stretch as he looked around. He seemed to be taking everything in, as if he were either contemplating the fact that there was genuine wood for the flooring, or wondering at the fact that Mojave probably hadn't changed hardly at all since he had left earth some three hundred years ago.

The train departed the station again, and we simply stood there for a minute or so in the cooling evening air.

I broke the silence as I motioned to the sunset. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

John gave a nod. "Reminds me of my own... fleeting childhood..." He gave a breathy laugh. "I grew up in a desert canyon. I still don't know precisely where it is to this day. It didn't look like this, though. It didn't have enough plants to be here."

I glanced at him slightly, but decided to keep the hanging silence. I smiled as I inhaled deeply, and he did the same.

"It feels like _ages_ since I've smelled a good desert rain."

We looked at each other. There was a single moment of surprised shock before we both broke out laughing over the words said in unison.

I think that it was the first time that I'd seen him smile in the whole several months I'd known him for. It was nice, because he genuinely seemed amused by the situation, instead of simply condescending and sarcastic. A broad smile was plastered across his face, though he soon covered it with the back of his hand. It felt nice to know that he was actually capable of being happy.

I slowly began walking back towards the open back of the station, where the flickering streetlamp was. I gave a slight smile at the lamp before John came up beside me. "That needs fixing... how long has it needed fixing?"

I gave a slight laugh. "Oh, probably since before this station was even built." I gave him a slight glance. "It's been around since... forever. It was probably here since before my grandparents of... I want to say four generations back... even came around here. Trust me, that was a long time ago." I scanned the horizon for Roger and his blue Chevy.

"Who are you looking for?" John walked up to me, and glanced around.

"A friend of mine. He was _supposed_ to pick us up right about now. And he is not here yet." I scanned the horizon again. " Wonder where he is."

Suddenly, I heard a high-pitched shout from beyond the crest of the hill. "Pike-man!"

I _cringed_. Legitimately _cringed_ at my slightly-odd nickname.

"Oakley Holt," I finally said, turning to the young man who was just pulling up in a horse-drawn wagon.

John looked at me, and looked as though he was ready to split his sides laughing at my face (which, he told me later, had twisted itself into a tight scowl and taken on a strange shade of fuchsia). He had gone with the wiser choice, and opted to simply bite his lip and refrain from raucous laughter. It was still plastered on his face, and I easily read it, despite the fact that my immediate attentions were almost entirely on Oakley Holt.

I finally spoke again. "What are you doing here, Tree?"

It was the young redhead's turn to cringe, and John looked as though he were about to explode.

Finally, Oakley regained his bearing, and answered. "Er... uh... Roger sent me, because he said that something came up. Doctor business, I guess. He told me to pick you up, and take you back to Pike-Hawkwood."

I gave a skeptical nod. " _Right_ ," I said, drawing out the 'i'. "Roger will probably give me a full explanation... until then... Thanks, kid."

I walked to the back of the wagon, and climbed in, somehow _without_ falling flat on my face. John followed suit, giving a curt nod to our twenty-year-old wagon chauffeur.

It was a tense ride back to the ranch, and in the meantime, I tried to think of various ways to help make this a memorable time for John.

I did not have to look very far.


	17. Chapter 14b

Alright, fine. I had been pacing. I had been pacing a lot. John told me that he expected a long patch to be worn in the living room floor. I didn't believe him, entirely. It was just an... urban legend, of sorts. No real value at all. So why did I feel like the wood beneath my feet was just a hair lower where I was walking now than when I started? Just nervousness, I suppose.

Let's just be fair here, I was _nervous_. Roger had been here for about five whole hours, and there had been virtually no word since. John had managed to keep me company somewhat, but there wasn't much for us to do. Honestly, I felt like a DSS Rat again, stuck and helpless in the middle of nowhere.

I glanced at John, and we managed eye contact. John told me later that I looked like I was about ready to pass out from the stress and sheer exhaustion. In all reality, I think that I was. After all, it was only about six hours prior that I found out that my wife was not only extremely pregnant, but also happening to go into labor. That shook up my day quite a bit, I'd say.

The second Roger opened the door a crack, I very nearly pounced on him. Well, as much as you can with elbow crutches. "Well? How is she? How are they?" I was nearly pressed against the doorway, and my head was rested against the door and frame. "Is everything alright? We haven't heard anything."

Roger dipped his head, and stepped outside. Just before he shut the door, I could see Vina holding a small grey bundle of blanket. I tried to edge through, but the door shut, and Roger slowly turned me around. By this time, John had stood and walked over, but I'll admit that my eyes were all on Roger as he announced the news.

"It's a boy. Congratulations, Chris." As much as he spoke congratulations, he delivered it as if it were an arrest warrant.

"How is that _bad_? I want to see him... and decide on a name with Vina..."

"Chris..." Roger's face looked forlorn as he pulled me out of my jubilant fog. "There's something you really need to know." He put his hand on my shoulder, and I all of the sudden expected a metaphorical punch to the stomach. "Chris, your son is... he's not strong... his breathing is... weak, to say the least. I... don't expect him to live more than a few days. Most likely... before dawn, really. I can't justify transporting him to LA Med, because he's too unstable. I'm so sorry..."

If I looked like a codfish in that moment... Well, I'm guessing I kinda did. My mouth then pressed into a line as I struggled to sort out exactly how I wanted to react to this. In all reality, I think I kind of shut down. And I did. I wasn't processing really anything of what he was saying. All that I got out of it was that my newborn son was going to die.

...

John stared at this man they called 'Roger' open-mouthed. How could he be so cold? "But... that shouldn't mean that he can't at least see the boy... the child deserves a name, at the least."

Roger sighed at him. "I guess... alright. If you insist. But I must warn you... It's not best to get attached..."

John watched as Christopher Pike's face turned a bright red, and the man finally just snapped. "I don't _damn well care_ , Roger! I have to see my son," the admiral yelled, his voice thick with the tears that threatened to flow down his face. John watched as Chris pushed past Roger, and wrested the door open. Christopher stopped cold in his tracks just as he stepped though the doorway, and John very nearly bumped into him.

...

I looked at Vina, and at the tiny grey bundle she held in her arms. Her eyes were red from crying, and I could see the tear streaks. I slowly made my way to the chair next to the bed, and her eyes followed me. I barely noticed John in the room. As I sat down, I saw my son's face...

"Vina... he's beautiful," I said through the rapid breaths of hyperventilation. "He's absolutely beautiful... Vina, I'm so sorry."

She leaned over, and rested her head on my shoulder. "Christopher... he's just... he's so small. I don't know..." She trailed off as a series of sobs shook her body.

I slowly reached around and patted her back, and my own head tilted to rest on hers as I tried to keep myself from crying. "What are we going to name him," I asked in a low voice.

Vina bit her lip lightly... "We said that our first son would be named after your friend, Philip Boyce. Now that he's gone... Philip Matthias means so much more." she said back in a near-whisper.

"It's perfect... he's perfect. He looks so much like you..." I trailed off.

"But he has your eyes," Vina said as she gazed longingly at the sleeping child.

It kept on sinking in that Philip was running out of time. It made me cherish every moment that I saw the light blanket move with his weak breaths...

...

"I... I can save him."

Christopher nearly fell out of the chair when John spoke. Whether it was from realizing that the latter was present, or understanding what was said, John didn't know. " _What?_ "

"Well, by that I mean that I can give him a fighting chance," John made an extra effort, but he was quite sure that his words were wasted.

Christopher immediately stood, and came face to face with John. "Were you going to tell me about this before?"

John looked down slightly. "I just did... But... Perhaps I could. I'm not sure if it would work; the boy is quite young."

Christopher obviously didn't hear that part of it, because within five minutes, he had Roger back in the room, and ready for the medical procedure.

John slowly pressed the small vial into the hypo.

"It's not... it's not all that complicated. In fact, it's not really a big deal at all."

"You say that one more time, John, and I _swear_ I'll hit you."Christopher was suddenly all up in his personal space again.

What was it with high-ranking Starfleet officers and breaches of personal space? There was an actual, scientific, person-to-breaches ratio, he was certain. Nonetheless. John simply blinked at him.

"You're saving my son's life! That accounts for something!"

John then turned his attention back on the hypo, pressing against the inside of his forearm. The vial slowly filled with a thick crimson liquid.

Roger spoke up for the first time in quite awhile, and John nearly jumped at hearing his unexpected voice. "You'd better do something fast. His readings are getting very, very shifty."

John slowly replaced the vial from his own hypo into a different one, then (probably over-dramatically) walked over to Vina and little Philip. "Here we are," he said in a low whisper as he pressed the smaller hypospray against the little one's arm and released the payload. The hypo gave a quiet hiss of air and Philip stirred slightly, but other than that there were no other negative effects.

...

I couldn't believe it when I saw it. Roger couldn't believe it when he saw it. Vina cried, and I did too.

Philip lived through the night. He lived through the next—in fact, Roger declared him to be in perfect health by the time I had to haul John back to Section 31.

John became an officially unofficial member of our family.

It wasn't legal, and there was ultimately no point to it other than a handful of heartfelt thanks, and John declaring us to be Augment-friends (which may or may _not_ be a good thing). Nonetheless, it felt good to finally recognize John as one of us, and I'd like to think that it meant something to him to be included.

I also may have created further potential for someone to blackmail me. There's always a potential for the abuse of a life-debt. And with a guy like John, and situations like John could be in...

Well, let's just say that I wasn't looking forward to the day that he called in that favor.

And did he ever.

...

Of _all_ the cities that he could choose to meet, he couldn't even manage to make it one the same damned _continent_. It wasn't difficult for me to book it off to London, but it was extremely inconvenient. I had my own personal shuttle while on Earth, but I still had to explain absences to my superiors, and this one was one big, three-hour hole in my itinerary that I had to make up excuses to for Alex, and as you know, he isn't always the most...forgiving of people.

And once I got there, we meet in an alleyway, of all places? What are we—secret agents? Maybe it was something about a penchant when he was growing up, or something.

I slowly walked into the alleyway...my nerves were practically firecrackers. I had a phaser, yes, but there were still people who hung around alleyways looking for an unknowing visitor.

"John?" I lit a small Light Pod, and held it above my head as the faint orange glow illuminated about eight feet in front of me before being enveloped by the dense, pale fog that had settled on the vacant nighttime streets of London. Well, the Pod was useless, kind of like having your headlights on full power in a blizzard.

I could just barely make out a black silhouette in the murky grey-navy of the alleyway.

"Admiral Pike. I'm glad you could make it." John didn't even turn.

I sighed, and managed to walk towards him a few feet more, cane in hand. "John... What is this all about?"

John slowly exhaled, and his silhouette turned to me briefly before he dipped his head slightly. "I'm in trouble, Chris. I'm in a terrible mess. A terrible, terrible mess."

I went silent. It felt as though the entire city just stopped, and the silence felt deafening.

I sighed, and looked back to the entrance of the alleyway as I heard a siren begin to blare in the far distance, then be joined by several 'siblings'.

"Please, Chris. I...don't have much time. Those sirens are for me... I helped your family. Will you help mine? Please?"

I whirled around to face him just as soon as he claimed responsibility for the sirens. "What the hell did you do?!"

John shook his head. "I haven't much time, so just listen to me. Section 31 has been threatening my family... you know that."

I bit my lip. I was hoping that this was actually going to be reasonable. "Yes. I know that."

"Well... I tried to get them out. I put them in a empty space in the torpedoes, and I tried to smuggle them to safety."

I blinked once. And swore once. "What happened?"

"Marcus... Marcus caught me. I'm on the run now... you're in danger just meeting me, but I had to talk to you..." His voice ran thick with emotion, and the tears that I couldn't see. "Chris, they're all dead. He killed them _all_."

My information overload was getting dangerously close at this point. "All seventy-one of them? Why?"

John shrugged lightly, and receded further into the alleyway, motioning for me to follow. "He wants to punish me...I suppose that I ruined his plans, and he's looking for retaliation."

I scrambled to follow him slightly. "Where... Where do I come in? It's not like I can help your family if they're dead, and... I can argue with Alex, but I don't think that I could change his mind. I've talked to him, but he doesn't listen to me anymore. He's got this...poisoned dream, and he's intent on seeing it through."

John vaulted up to a fire escape on an old brick building. "I don't need you to do anything _to_ him... just be ready... Ready to forgive. There are some things I have to do. Please forgive me in advance."

I stared up at him, as I was unable to follow him up. "I... I don't like the sound of that, John."

John tipped his head down at me. " _You don't have to_." And he was gone with a flurry of a dark coat.


	18. Chapter 15

"Chris! You're here! I didn't think that you were coming... What with... things, and all." A solid, affectionate slap on the back from Admiral Halverson made me stumble forward slightly.

"Yeah, Freddy; it's good to see you, too." I grinned and continued my slow stroll as we walked towards Daystrom. Albeit that he left me in his dust, it was nice to know that he didn't think that it was necessary to try to help me down the hallway. Then, of course, I had been walking for some time now- a few months, at least.

There was still less movement than I would have liked (despite the additional corrective surgeries) and there was still more residual pain than I would have liked, as well. The fact that I was actually walking was fairly startling all on its own. I still needed to use my cane on a bad day, but, for the most part, I was extremely mobile—especially considering where I could have been.

I walked to where I usually sat, on the far side of the table from the door since I was the least experienced person present, as far as seniority being an admiral went. Even so, everyone else still respected me as one of their own, despite the fact that I was just a Lower Rear Admiral. I think it had to so less with my age and more with my field experience. But nonetheless. I slowly sat down, and laid my cane quietly on the table, its copper handle facing away from me and towards the center.

There were a few hushed murmurs at the conference table… not the usual happy chirp that accompanied most meetings. Sure, we were admirals and were thus held to a higher standard than the latest gossip about shenanigans at Initial Training (Starfleet's version of Boot Camp), but admirals are people, too. We _talk_.

"Gentlemen," Admiral Marcus said as he walked in from his private office adjacent to the conference room. "I believe that we're all here, so we may begin proceedings for this meeting-" Alex's gaze rested on me, and he practically stopped short in speaking. He sat. "… I believe that this in the utmost interest to all of us-" He shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "Chris? I didn't say that you were required to be here..." He trailed off.

I gave a slight tip of the head. "I figured that I might as well come. Permission to speak freely?"

"Granted, as always." A consenting murmur echoed through the room, though I could tell that some said it more reluctantly than others.

I looked at the admirals at the entire table incredulously. "Guys, if you're gonna roast me…you might as well do it when I'm around."

I don't know if I had ever caused Alex to put his head in his hands so quickly in a meeting before. "Chris… that's not why we didn't want you here," said the muffled, exasperated sigh of an answer. Alex lifted his head, and leaned back in his chair. "We just didn't want you getting all off on one of your tangents when we break the news to you."

"What news?"

"We're reinstating the five-year-mission. Admirals try it first—we're trying to decide who should go."

I can honestly say that about a thousand thoughts ran through my mind at that very moment, not the least of which was ' _Finally!_ ' several hundred times over. I smiled broadly, and another admiral put her head in her hands, as if in dread of what was to come next. _Everyone_ knew my openly displayed interest with the reinstatement of the program.

"I want in on this," I said after a few moments of hanging silence.

Admiral Joyce Benton made a strange sound, (that akin to a dying animal, if you really must know) and leaned forward to rest his head on the table. " _No-o-o_ ," came the muffled groan.

"That's precisely why we didn't want to tell you, Chris," the greying brunette commented as she straightened up and tugged her shirt down.

"Oh, come on Jackie. You know very well that we _all_ want in on this, right?" Freddy leaned forward to set his elbows on the table, but because of his long arms his hands dangled over the other side of the narrow ring. "Face it—we _all_ want to go on this one."

I gave him a grateful nod. "You all remember when we were young. The old-timers told stories about it, and complained about how Starfleet was so concerned with health and wellness. We _all_ remember that. We used to dream about going out there for five years straight, but we couldn't. And now we can. I know how well those dreams are distributed. As much as I'd given up on it as a captain, learning about this now... I'm still the most recent promotion. I'm the one freshest out of the field."

"No volunteers. Nominations," Alex chided gently.

"Admiral Marcus, with all due respect, I think that a nomination and a vote will do very little," Jackie Rittman said, matter-of-factly. "It's time to bring out the Hat."

Halverson nodded assent. "Definitely time for the Hat," he said.

Alexander Marcus sighed. "You're serious? You really want the Hat?"

Jackie shrugged, as did several of the other admirals. "Only way to get this problem solved."

Alex sighed, and went back into his office, returning with a rather large, antique, stovepipe-style hat. "Alright, same rules as always. Tags in. We shuffle the Hat, choose three tags, and vote on that."

I stared incredulously as all of the highest-ranking officers of Starfleet slowly took off their durasteel dog-tags and placed them into the hat to basically raffle off the five-year mission. Everyone placed their tags in, except for the oldest of the admirals.

"Chris," Freddy called. "You in, or not?"

I drew my tags off and passed them down the line. I heard them clink against the others as they were dropped into the Hat. I bit my lip lightly as I looked around at the other Admirals. "Uh... This may be a bad time to ask, but exactly how many history-altering decisions are made on... Hat drawings?"

The second highest ranking admiral present after Alex, Preston Underwood, smirked at me and rasped, "Son, you _really_ don't want to know the answer to that question."

"I see," I said as Alex shuffled the Hat.

"Well, Harry," Alex said to Harrison Quering when he thought the tags in the Hat were sufficiently jumbled. "You do the honors."

The elderly gentleman took the hat, dipped his hand into the stovepipe hat, and drew out three tags. He promptly set them down on the table, and Alex set the hat back in front of his own chair.

I, for one, still couldn't believe that we were making a decision based on a _tag raffle_.

Alex dumped the remaining tabs out into his hand as Harry peered at the tags through his bifocals. "The three winners are: Joyce Benton, Andy Kingman, and Christopher Pike."

A chorus of high-pitched groans arose from the table, and I momentarily wondered if I had accidentally stepped into a kindergarten class. Maybe the people were too old for that by at least ten, if not fifteen times over, but _damn_. It sure _sounded_ like grade school all over again.

The other admirals reluctantly took back their tags, but Joyce, Andy, and I didn't get ours back. Then the other admirals kicked us out of Daystrom while they discussed the remainder of it. In the meantime, I had plenty of time to think about my competition. Benton was one of the younger admirals, only a few years older than me. Still, he had been an admiral for quite some time versus my first year. Kingman was a little older than Joyce, but had been an admiral for about the same time. So, needless to say, I had at least a fair chance, and I still had my hopes up.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally called us back in, and all three of us were given our tags back as we sat down.

Alex was sitting back in his chair, looking awfully pensive for the situation.

Joyce was the one who broke the silence. "So... Who gets the assignment?"

I also decided to open my big mouth (a Galaxy-class _mistake_ , in retrospect). "And what ship?"

"Chris," Alex sighed. "You are one _lucky_ son of a-"

" _Gun_ ," Preston interrupted quickly. Alex shot the man a dirty look before Preston continued as nothing had happened. "Chris, you're going to have a choice of ships to work with. There's the _Lambda_ and the _Senator_ just out of their runs with the CRIEC, then there's the _Halifax_ , the _Resolution_ , the _Vision_ , and potentially the _Enterprise_."

I blinked at Preston. "The _Enterprise_? But that's Kirk's ship..."

Alex gave a deep sigh. "Chris, that's something else that you and I need to discuss in a few hours. I'm really sorry... Will everyone who did not receive a _special_ message in their summons please vacate the conference room?"

Most of the admirals vacated the room—at least three quarters of everyone present. I left, too, but not before I heard Alex speak again.

"We now proceed to the true matter of this meeting, gentlemen. The charges brought against Captain Kirk, even if unwittingly, by his First Officer based on their conflicting reports of the mission on Nibiru, and whether this incident will involve a court martial."

...

To say that Chris Pike was shocked would be a brazen understatement. He stayed in that state of shock throughout that night, and up until noon the next day.

Yes, Jim Kirk was a genius idiot, but never in a million years would Chris have thought that it would lead to _this_. Jim broke the Prime Directive in what could have been possibly the most spectacular way ever, even exceeding Christopher Pike's own big (screw)-up some twenty-five years ago.

And it hurt—it hurt to see things like that happen, to any captain, of course, but especially seeing it happen to Jim Kirk.

After all, Alex had dropped that bomb on Chris and then kicked him and the lower admirals out of Daystrom. Chris knew that he had no business being there when that sort of thing was being discussed, but still. It hurt knowing that he couldn't be there to defend Kirk. Those admirals didn't know Jim Kirk like he did—they wouldn't have any lenience towards the boy's inherent tendency towards risky shenaniganery, and they could potentially crush Jim's career. Chris couldn't have such promise being squashed by one honest mistake. He could have defended Kirk—he could have...

Although, after hearing what had transpired in a special brief by Admiral Marcus after the meeting, Chris was suddenly unsure of if he would have truly wanted to defend Kirk, or beat the boy senseless of his own accord.

Jim Kirk had lied in an official report. Chris had nearly put his head in his hands simply at that. Jim had nearly killed his entire crew. He had broken—nay, _shattered_ the Prime Directive. Alex proceeded to list off a number of offenses, and what would result from it.

As much as Chris hated it, he knew that what had been decided upon was a perfectly reasonable punishment. Jim Kirk was, as of yet, unfit for command, and it was as simple as that. No questions asked, because everyone conceded that it was true. He couldn't command a ship, because he had jumped right into a command position without experience beforehand (it wasn't as much 'command', as much as it was 'bossing people around', for Kirk), and the boy was still just as much of a punk as he had been four years ago. And Jim still didn't have a degree, despite having the time to get it while he was on tour aboard the _Enterprise_. Thus, he would be sent back to the Academy for remedial courses, for as long as it would take him to get that doctorate that he _should_ have had in the first place, _before_ he even _applied_ for the captaincy.

Jim Kirk was careless, and he didn't respect the Chair in the slightest; Alex had merely brought that to Chris's attention. It wasn't as if Chris hadn't known that before, but it was so much more pointed now. Starfleet crewmembers could have died while under Kirk's watch, and they didn't have to be in that sort of danger. That was carelessness of the highest order, and that sort of thing couldn't be ignored, lest Kirk truly put his crew in undue danger, and everyone pay the penalty.

It's like... teaching an eight-year old to drive. They don't have the coordination, the knowledge to operate the vehicle safely, or the necessary sense of responsibility. Everyone knows that you don't give car keys to an eight-year-old, because they may end up seriously injuring others, or even themselves.

In short, Kirk was _dangerous_ in a command position, and he would be until he actually knew what he was doing.

So Chris Pike was forced to be the bearer of bad tidings for the man who was practically his protégé. And on a Friday, on top of that.

...

"'Uneventful'."

"Admiral?"

I kept my voice level as I clarified. "It's the way you describe the survey of Nibiru in your captain's log."

Kirk gave a slight nod. "Uh- yes, sir. I didn't want to waste your time going over the details."

I knew that the skepticism was plastered all over my face as I spoke."Yah- tell me more about this volcano. Data says it was highly volatile-"

A smug 'Mm.' on Kirk's part.

I simply continued, as if I hadn't taken acute notice of his near-remark. "If it were to erupt, it would wipe out the planet."

"Let's hope it doesn't, sir."

"Something tells me it won't."

Kirk hardly lost a beat."Uh, well, sir, 'volatile' is all relative; maybe our... data was off."

I nearly smiled. He was beginning to get where I was going with this. I spontaneously remembered the fact that he did indeed ace all of his classes- the ones he had been bothered to actually take.

I tipped my head slightly. "Or maybe it didn't erupt because Mr. Spock detonated a cold fusion device _inside it_ right after a civilization that's _barely invented the_ _wheel_ happened to see a _starship_ _rising_ _out of their ocean_!" I glanced to Spock. "That is, pretty much, how you describe it, is it not?"

Spock tried to answer. "Admiral-"

"You filed a report?" Jim asked Spock with wide, emotional eyes marking feelings of betrayal. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Spock replied as levelly as ever, which quite obviously put Kirk off. "I incorrectly assumed that you would be truthful in your captain's log."

"Yeah- I would have been if I didn't have to save your life."

"A fact for which I am immeasurably grateful and the very reason I felt it necessary to take responsibility for the actions that-"

Kirk gave a dry laugh. "'Taking responsibility', yeah. That'd be so noble, _pointy_ , if you weren't also _throwing me under the bus_."

It was Spock's turn to glare at Kirk with a hurt expression. "'Pointy'? Is that a derogatory reference to-"

" _Gentlemen_ ," I finally interrupted, snapping up my cane and opting to stand. After having seen several moments of this wonderfully dramatic situation, I decided that it was time for a change of pace. After all, it was severely cutting into my plans for a nice, slow weekend. Might as well get it over with. "Starfleet's mandate is to _explore_ and _observe_ , not to _interfere_."

Spock attempted to give an answer to my remark- something which irked me, but I heard him out, nonetheless. "Had the mission gone according to plan, Admiral, the indigenous species would never have been aware of our interference."

I nearly snorted. "That's a _technicality_."

"I am Vulcan, sir," he replied with that strange calmness that truly put me off. "We embrace technicality."

"Are you giving me attitude, Spock?"

"I am expressing multiple attitudes simultaneously, sir. To which are you referring?" It sounded like a genuine question.

" _Out_."

A beat.

I leveled my voice, and returned it to its normal state of volume and pitch. "You're dismissed, Commander."

Spock quickly vacated the room, and I simply waited for him as I took a few steps forward (aided by the cane, but nonetheless). This conversation was not truly meant for anyone else's ears, regardless of the surveillance cams that were always surrounding me.

I gave a slight sigh before speaking. I had to keep my frustration to myself for a little while longer...

"So, tell me what you did wrong; what's the lesson to be learned here?

"Never trust a Vulcan."

Well. So much for that. I nearly cringed. My face nearly well did all the talking.

"Now, see, you can't even answer the question!" I shifted and turned my head to look at him. "You lied! On an official report; you lied. You think the rules don't apply to you 'cause you disagree with them!"

I didn't give him permission to speak freely, or even to move, really. According to military tradition, he was mine to light into as I pleased. And trust you me, he _deserved_ it.

I remembered receiving a similar talking-to from an Admiral when I was around his age, maybe a little older. Still, despite the similarities, there were many differences as well. For one, he was in trouble for lying on an official report. I was guilty of killing a man. But that's a story for another day.

As much as it was military tradition for Kirk to not give a reply, Kirk had never really had much of a thing for tradition, anyways. "That's why you talked me into signing up in the first place. It's why you gave me your ship-"

No, no. that wasn't quite right. So I promptly cut him off. "I gave you my ship because I saw a greatness in you." My thoughts paused all on their own as I thought of George again. I stuffed the memory back into its proper place as I continued. "And now I see you—you haven't got an _ounce_ of humility."

He promptly broke rank, and I really didn't mind. "What was I supposed to do, let Spock die?"

"You're missing the point."

His eyes showed a desperation to vindicate himself... I appreciated that.

Allow me to remind you that I had almost thirty years experience on him, and he didn't have a snowball's chance in _hell_ of getting out of this one, even by my standards.

"I don't think I am, sir. What would you have done?!"

"I wouldn't have risked my First Officer's life _in the first place_! You were supposed to _survey_ a planet, not _alter its destiny_! You violated a dozen Starfleet regulations, and almost got everyone under your command _killed_!"

"Except, I _didn't_! You know how many crewmembers I've lost since I-"

And I lit into James Tiberius Kirk, just like I'd wanted to do for years, but never could, because he was practically my protégé.

" _That's_ your _problem_! You think you're _infallible_! Y' think you can't make a _mistake_!" A low snarl grew in my voice. "It's a _pattern_ with you! The rules are for _other people_!"

"Some should be," he said simply.

(I'm not even going to _touch_ on how much trouble he could have been in for that little remark.)

" _And what's worse is you using_ _blind luck to justify your playing god_!"

He simply stared at me, and then averted his gaze to the floor, as if for the first time seeing things from a different perspective. Served him right.

I leveled my voice again. This was truly what I dreaded having to tell him... "Given the circumstances, this has been brought to Admiral Marcus's attention. He convened a special tribunal to which I was _not_ invited." My eyes bored into his, and my voice was grave as I continued. "You _understand_ what Starfleet regulations mandate be done at this point."

A beat, as the reality of what was going to happen sank in. He knew the penalty just as well as I did all those years ago.

"They've taken the _Enterprise_ away from you. They're sending you back to the Academy."

I saw the hurt and the desperation in his eyes. I saw a lack of hope, a realization that he had truly gone too far this time. As much as it was a relief to finally tell him what he needed to hear, it still stung me as well, to have to be the one who delivered the news.

"Admiral, listen-"

I stopped him before his argument could even get off the ground, and I had every right to. "No, I'm not going to listen. Why should I listen? I'm not gonna listen. You don't listen to anybody but _yourself_!"

Kirk's voice rose over mine. "I understand regulation, but every decision I've made—"

" _No!_ "

A slight pause, as his face betrayed the shock of what was happening, and I gathered my thoughts.

"I _can't_ listen." A beat. "You don't comply with the rules, you don't take responsibility for _anything_ , and you don't respect the Chair... You know why? Because you're not ready for it."

Those words practically drove a knife through my chest, for as much as it hurt my spirits to say them. I had wanted Jim to become a good Starfleet captain—become what his father had never had the chance to become. And here he was, off to a smashing start.

I slowly turned around, leaning heavily on the thin wooden cane as pain flared in my leg. It usually did bother me when I was angry, or all riled up, as I admittedly was. But the discomfort was bearable, and I wasn't about to show any visible signs of weakness or dependency. I gritted my teeth, and walked back to my desk, finally sitting back down with an admitted sigh of relief. I leaned the cane back against the table, and gave a tiny sigh of frustration.

I finally addressed Kirk with a simple, "you are dismissed." He didn't deserve any more recognition for his actions. Despite the fact that I would have done almost the same thing to help Nibiru, I would have been much more quiet regarding it, and I would have sent an engineer, or a security officer to do it... Upon a further, bitter reflection, it also dawned upon me that I _would_ have left the unlucky soul to die who was caught in the volcano's maw.

Maybe it was that I was a rule-follower. Maybe I was just cold-hearted. Either way, I tried to mentally shrug the thoughts away. They didn't go away.

I pulled the PADD back off the desk, and proceeded to silently curse myself as he left the room.


	19. Chapter 16

I remember hovering over the corpse of my ExO, Commander Lacey Hollister. A sword rested in his limp hand, the steel tip resting in the crimson puddle that the man lay in. That same crimson was speckled through the commander's blonde hair.

I remember... realizing that I was still alive as I stood there, gasping for air despite the massive, gaping wound in my neck. The walls behind me were splattered with gore. My shirt was tattered and covered in blood—some my own, some of my opponent.

I remember going back to the corner of the room to find the young Lieutenant Commander Hollister had been trying to molest. I remember asking her if she was OK. Asking her who she was. I remember giving her the remains of my shirt to cover her, so that she could keep her dignity, even after what had happened.

I remember her wrapping her arms around me and hugging me as she wept in shock, as well as relief. I remember her name. Vina Walters.

I remember drawing her to her feet so that she could walk forward and see Hollister's corpse. I had wanted to assure her that her attacker was gone...that she was safe. Instead, both our realities were shattered in a moment of misunderstanding.

I remember security rushing into the room, and without a second thought forcing me to the ground as they locked me in handcuffs. I remember being dizzy from blood loss, but still screaming and fighting their stronger hands as they struggled to get me under control.

I remember receiving not one, not two, but _four_ high-power stun blasts to the chest before I finally sank into the floor and allowed them to arrest me for supposedly murdering my First Officer.

I remembered being hauled to the brig, and staying there as we made our way back to Earth for my court-martial. I remember wondering why, of all reasons, they would want to trust a known criminal over their captain. Then it dawned on me again... Hollister wasn't the only criminal aboard. The former captain, Jack Finch, had simply let the crew run wild. He had allowed anything and everything to slide; the only reason that I had even been transferred to the _SS Nightfall_ was because an untimely inspection had caught him and his crew in a state of utter disorder, and his command had been stripped from him. I was still trying to control the crew a month later, and they took my killing the First Officer as an excuse to retaliate.

Admittedly, this grey cloud did have a tiny silver lining. Hearing about the mutiny on the _Nightfall_ was what eventually led my brother Shiloh to run the tightest ship in the fleet. _He_ became notorious for drilling a new crew or a new crewmember until they literally dropped from exhaustion. He became the most difficult captain to best at a War Games, because his crew was trained for just about any and every contingency. I just wish that his knowledge hadn't come at such high expense for me.

I remember being tried for Hollister's murder. Somehow, I still footed his bill.

I remember being called into Admiral Robert April's office for a solid talking-to, not unlike what I had done to Kirk. April commended me for my virtue, which made it bittersweet that he then proceeded to strip me of my command, and to declare that it was highly unlikely that I would ever rank above a Lieutenant Commander again.

Even if I was stripped of my command, and not so much as allowed back on a ship, I was still allowed to help teach at Initial Training, and I used the time that I was confined to port train a whole seven batches of newbie cadets. In retrospect, I find the fact that they allowed an alleged murderer to train the future of Starfleet more than a little bit unnerving. Still, it gave me something to do, and at the time I was thankful.

Vina and I stayed in contact. She left Starfleet and moved to upstate New York. And call it cliché, but things... sort of worked out, if you will. Now, it was no whirlwind. Vina was understandably wary of men at this point. Still, we grew closer as my sentence drew out, and it looked as though Robert's projection would come true.

It was about a year later that the entire Federation Council declared a mistrial and reinstated me to my former rank as a full captain. The thing is, by this time...I was kind of... engaged. As slow as our courtship had been, the marriage itself and the events that followed came in startling procession. I was transferred out to Deep Space Station 3 less than a month after I was married.

So... yes. Quite an interesting tale that surrounds me and how I met my wife. It is also quite a story as to how I ended up being demoted to a Lieutenant Commander, and then back up to a captain again.

Quite a tale that deems me capable of empathy in what happened to Jim Kirk.

That doesn't mean that I'm going to let him get away with what he did—just that I understand his situation. Getting humiliated and disgraced is something that I'm well familiar with, as much as I wish that I wasn't. What I did to Kirk haunted my imagination—I was Robert, this time—the entire rest of the work day, and even as I went home. After all, defrocking a captain was an understandably big deal. It did not leave my mind all evening.

...

"I just cannot believe that they were so incredibly stupid. I mean, I didn't even do that sort of crap when I was their age. I would have been kicked out for shenaniganery like that," Chris huffed. Then he sighed, and put his head in his hands. "This could ruin careers and friendships—Jim Kirk is going to get sent back the Academy." He stared at a indistinct point on the far wall as he continued in a lower voice. "I mean, it's not as if he didn't need to get that degree beforehand..." He growled. "But dammit, of _all_ the ways that it could have happened, that has to be the _worst_... It's just... that arrogant son of a—"

Vina slowly massaged the tenseness out of his shoulders, and he was interrupted by a grunt that escaped his throat.

"Chris," Vina said soothingly, "Is there anything we can talk about besides work? You should relax for once... bringing your work home; we've talked about this."

Christopher Pike gave a sheepish grin, and a slight laugh. "You're right." He shook his head, smiling. "I keep forgetting about that, don't I? I know that Starfleet isn't the beginning and end of the world... although it can definitely seem like it, when one builds super-weapons of mass destruction..." He sighed. "But still. I did come here to relax; I'm not due back until Monday." He turned slightly, enough so that Vina could bend down and plant a light kiss on his forehead.

"So let's enjoy tonight for what it is..." She continued to rub his shoulders and upper back. "We can talk about anything except your workplace environment, and the monkeys that make like they're officers."

Chris tipped his head. "I just don't know, Vina... I've always seen Jim Kirk like my own son for the past few years..." He bit his lip lightly. "I can't stand to see him fall so hard, y'know." He shook his head. "I wish he hadn't been so stupid. I think that I'm going to go to Alex, and see if I can get Jim transferred to be my First Officer on the _Enterprise_. I know that he would rather be the captain, but still. He'll still be on the ship."

Vina's brow furrowed. "But... you did say that he deserved it. He did break the rules. You're really going to bail him out, just like that?"

Chris shook his head. "I'm not bailing him out—he'd still have to be on an undergraduate tour, and get his doctorate... but he'd be under my command. He'd be on the bridge of a ship, and a kid like that would need that. It's therapeutic for him."

Vina looked at him strangely, as if she were skeptical of his explanation. It dawned on him again that she wasn't just his wife, but she was also a former full-rank Lieutenant Commander in Starfleet. He kept forgetting about that.

"I _wouldn't_ be bailing him out," Chris defended. "I'd be just as tough on him with his studies—harder, even, than some of the Academy people. But at least he'd get to keep his pride." He paused to think a moment, before speaking again. "I do think that you're right, though. I shouldn't go straight off to ask Alex for something like that. I told Jim about that... less than twelve hours ago... If I'm going to try helping him, I could just let him think that he's actually going to _get it_ —at least for a couple days. I'll ask Alex on Tuesday; does that sound reasonable?"

Suddenly, a light flashed in Vina's face, as if something had just occurred to her, and her hands immediately stopped moving over his shoulders. " _Christopher_!"

The hair on the back of his neck spontaneously snapped to, and he flinched slightly. "What?"

Vina tsked at him like a mother hen. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Christopher Richard Pike!"

He practically _cringed_ upon hearing his full name.

"You started that about Jim, and then you turned that back around!" She gave him a playful cuff over the ear.

According to some element of common knowledge among the Pike family was the theory was that face-slapping was taboo—an insult—but that a gentle smack upside the head was just a little wake-up call. Chris didn't know entirely where that came from, but he wished that the idea hadn't been shared with his brother, or, for that matter, with Vina. (Shiloh had made the smack almost _legendary_ in Starfleet as a symbol of discipline.) Of course, Vina mostly used it against Christopher when, according to her, he was acting like quote, "a daft jackass". Unquote. Admittedly, he did get smacked a lot... but then, so did she.

"I was trying to get you to relax and unwind, because you _need_ that time away. You need time to just be yourself. Even if you do go haywire if you aren't constantly doing _something_." She bent down briefly to place a kiss on his cheek. "Not an Admiral, or anything else. No worries. No obligations. Just _us_."

Chris instinctively quirked a brow. "Well. Considering that little bundle of energy two doors down... I wouldn't classify us as being _alone_ ," he said with a smile. "Honestly, I can barely even believe that we're parents... But you've been busier than a bee, trying to keep him in check, I know that for sure..." He gave a laugh. "Long days and sleepless nights; I'm glad that I was there for at least the first two months to help you out. And even if I can't be there for a little while longer now... I'm sure that I'll be able to work something out with Alex...and be here more often." Chris craned his neck up again, and gave his wife a peck on the lips. "And what do you think about _that_?"

"I think that it sounds _wonderful_." Vina's hands strayed down from their place on his shoulders until her arms were wrapped across his chest, and her head was set atop his. She was still careful to avoid the scars from a year ago, though they no longer caused her husband regular pain. "When Phil gets older, a lot of things will change... but for now..."

Chris glanced down at her hands, which were at the moment caressing his bare chest. "Oh. _That_. You were thinking more along the lines of..." He trailed off, as it suddenly felt as though it were difficult to breathe. In the strangest and most _enjoyable_ way possible, but nonetheless. "Mhm. _That_."

"Well, as long as we're alone, and Philip is sleeping... why not? We have a whole half a lifetime to catch up on. Just you and me."

"Just you and me?" Christopher's eyes moved up to look at her, and they sparkled with humor and mischief as he spoke. "Well, I can do... romantic." He quickly added, "If I _must_."

Vina just laughed... That laugh. Brilliant sunshine on a rainy day. Chris's face immediately brightened, just hearing her muse, semi-sarcastically, "My dearest darling Romeo. You are so _verbose_ in your declaration of mad, passionate love to me."

Chris burst out laughing (in that beautiful baritone of his, Vina thought), and fell backwards. Vina gave an alarmed yelp as she tipped backwards with him. The conversation of just a few moments prior was soon forgotten as they were laughing in unison on the bedspread.

Christopher propped himself up on his elbow, and kissed his wife deeply, running his hand slowly through her blonde hair. Her hands quickly found their way up to his shoulders, and then slowly trailed from there to the back of his neck, pulling him ever-closer as she deepened the kiss, and he responded in kind.

And he believed in that moment that love is among the best feelings in the universe.

He slowly drew away, and Vina opened her eyes. "It's about time... We haven't done this in _ages_." She grinned broadly, and pulled him downward again so that their foreheads met.

Chris took a few hasty deep breaths as he looked into her eyes, remaining otherwise motionless. Her hands had trailed down to pick at the strings of his pajama trousers, but quite frankly, he didn't mind.

His lips touched hers again, and this time he simply savored the kiss. He knew the wonderful taste, and the brilliant smell, and the comforting feeling of exploring well-trodden paths...

For a single blessed moment, all was right in the universe.


	20. Chapter 17a

"Chris! It's good to see you!" I was about to snap to and salute, but Alex waved his hand back at me. "Please... we're just friends for this one. Permission to speak granted. How are you?" Alex spun around to face me, a broad smile plastered all over his face.

I gave a smile in return. "Well, Philip has a greatly increased vocabulary. He's graduated from 'ooga' to 'a-a', if that means anything."

Alex laughed. "Well, one step closer to 'mama' or 'dada', right? It's the little things, Chris. First words, first steps... you know." He laughed "I went through the exact same with Carol. And you know how I was with that. All you heard was talk about babies for two years until she started going to school."

I laughed. "Oh, yeah. April couldn't get you to shut up. And boy, he wanted to."

Alex let out a belly laugh. "Yeah... that was a good time... Pretty much the only good time. By the way... how did things go with you and Vina? You said that you were going to try... things... out again."

"Well, _that_ went pretty good, I'd say." I gave a slight laugh. "Hell, first time I've felt really, really normal in a very long time."

"Well, you _were_ notorious. Twenty times on nineteen different star systems? You did earn a name for yourself... And how was it?" Alex grabbed a PADD off of his desk, and scrolled down on it.

"As if I'm going to bloody tell you," I laughed. If we had been out drinking, I probably would have given his shoulder a solid smack. But we were both in uniform, so that was out of the question.

"Ehn." He looked back up at me with a smile, and the slightest suggestion of a shrug. "Curiosity of a dirty old man."

I laughed again and rolled my eyes. "Well, I didn't come here to discuss any... habits. In fact, this is a legitimate business meeting."My voice lowered slightly, and I stood a little straighter, closer to attention. "I've come to petition on Kirk's behalf, actually."

Alex's demeanor changed immediately, and he stood, tugging his shirt down. We were almost exactly eye to eye, which made for interesting conversation from both of us. "We talked about this, Chris. He broke the rules. He deserves what he gets."

I nodded, by this time I was fully at attention, my hat in my left hand like I was just a cadet. "Yes sir, I understand, I also think that I could present a more beneficial alternative to simply demoting him and sending him back to the Academy."

Alex sighed, and very nearly plopped back down into his own chair. "Dammit, Chris, you always have a better angle don't you? Must be those extra courses you took in law. Well, spit it out. And for the love of all that's good in the world, sit down; you're standing there like you're first year, and you're creeping the _hell_ out of me."

"Yes, sir." I quickly sat, slightly relaxing, but grimacing at my back's protesting twinge of pain.

Alex sighed. "So, what do you have for me today?"

"Well, it's like this, Alex. We know that Kirk is capable of command. He's shown that, time and time and again."

"We also know that he's a defiant, rule breaking son of a—"

"Yes, yes, we know that, too. But... We know that he's liked by his crew. They're fiercely loyal. He's not lost a man, as strange and abnormal as that is. We know that he cares about his crew... The issue is that he doesn't have his doctorate, so his command is shaky."

"Exactly. Which is why he is going back to the Academy for remedial courses," Alex drawled in his full accent. "He'll get his command back, just... not now. As soon as he gets his doctorate, I see no reason why he shouldn't return to command."

I nodded. "That's all well and fine, but we'd be missing out."

That got Alex's interest. "May I ask _how_? He's dangerous, we've all agreed. There's nothing more to it."

I leaned forward slightly. " _But_ he's still got his Master's, and Spock transferred off the _Enterprise_. So Kirk is capable of being my ExO, and it can be an undergraduate tour. He'll work at his studies while he does his First Officer duties. You did it, and I did it too; I'll make sure he gets his degree—you know me."

I stopped, and let the silence hang there for awhile.

"...I've _made_ my choice, Alex. I want Kirk to be my First Officer, undergraduate tour, on the Enterprise. He is still capable. He is still a leader. Besides, if anyone _deserves_ that second chance, it's Jim Kirk..."

...

OK, so if I was actually trying to harass Jim, I would have done something much, much worse, admittedly. As it were, I simply sat down right between him and what would have been his next big mistake.

He gave a humorless laugh and a sharp huff of frustration, and didn't even bother to make eye contact, opting for a simple, "How'd you find me?"

I gave a gentle smile. "I know you better than you think I do. And the first time I found you was in a dive like this." I neglected to tell him that all communicators could be tracked at a moment's notice, and he still had his. I nearly smirked at the memory of that night, though. "Remember that? You got your ass handed to you.

Jim's brow furrowed as he thought. "No, I didn't."

My brows nearly went up into my hairline, and I gave a slight smile. "You don't?"

"No, that... that's... not what happened."

"That was an _epic_ beating."

Jim shook his head. "No, it wasn't."

"You had _napkins hanging out your nose_ ," I deadpanned. "Did you not?"

A smile finally sprouted over Jim's face, and he gave a chuckle. "Yeah, that was a good fight."

"'A good fight'." I let the silence hang there for awhile. "I think that's your problem, right there." Jim was looking directly at me by this time, obviously dreading my next words. "They gave her back to me. The _Enterprise_."

A flurry of extremely varied emotions flew across his face at that moment, not the least of which I could see was envy and regret. It hurt me to see how upset he was about it. The other part of my mind was practically doing a happy dance that I finally had my ship back, but it still hurt to see what that did to Kirk.

"Congratulations," he said simply after a few moments. His voice turned into a bitter musing as he added, "Watch your back with that First Officer, though."

I shook my head lightly, and my gaze shifted to the far end of the bar before settling back on him. "Spock's not gonna be working with me; he's been transferred."

The glass of spirits Jim was holding dipped slightly. He was obviously not expecting that one, but he seemed to be having very conflicted opinions about how he wanted to react.

" _USS Bradbury_." I gave a slight nod in his direction as I added, "You're going to be my First Officer." and suddenly his attention was on me, whether thankful knowing that I had bailed him out, or just happy to be getting on the bridge of a ship again, I didn't know. "Yeah, Marcus took... some convincing. But every now and then I can make a good case." Well. That was... almost true.

"What did you tell him?"

I gave a slight smile. "The truth. That I believe in you. That if anybody deserves a second chance, it's Jim Kirk."

It looked as if a massive, 'Kid-on-Christmas-Morning' grin was going to plaster itself over Jim's face. Instead, he simply looked away briefly before turning back to me. "I don't know what to say."

I gave another slight chuckle. "That _is_ a first... 'Ts gonna be OK, son."

I was extremely frustrated with my communicator, because it chose exactly that moment to go off, and truly spoil the moment. I don't know really what the moment was, even, but I know that the moment was spoiled. I flipped the little communicator open, and looked at the update screen.

"'Emergency session, Daystrom'." Immediately my mind went to what John had told me not a week prior about being ready, and that there were things that he had to do which would warrant blaring sirens and needing forgiveness. I immediately pushed that out of my mind, but a heavy mist had settled over my mind all of the sudden. "That's us."


	21. Chapter 17b

Could I just say for the record that my brain kind of... broke, the second I saw John's face plastered on the computer terminals, and heard about the Kelvin Memorial Data Archive? My mind just wasn't processing things correctly. One half of my brain was attempting to process the fact that John, one of my best friends, had just killed 42 people in a bombing. The other half was attempting to reason why the man who saved my infant son's life was the same man who took so many others.

So, when I heard Jim speak, I was already not in the mood for a heavy discussion, and maybe snapped a bit harder than I had intended to.

"What's in the bag?"

"James, not now."

"But it doesn't seem odd to you that he'd target an archive? That's like bombing a—a library."

My brain was still working on correlating 'John' with 'terrorist'.

Then Alex called us both out, and everything just...sort of went to hell from there. "Chris? Everything OK there?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Kirk is just...acclimating to his new position as First Officer." I neglected to inform everyone of my own personal involvement with the subject... but I'm pretty sure that at least Alex already knew.

"You got something to say, Kirk, say it," Alex said. "Tomorrow is too late."

All eyes were suddenly on Kirk, and he nervously looked around at the numerous eyes staring intently at him. "I'm fine, sir. My apologies."

"Spit it out, son," he near-drawled. "Don't be shy."

"It's just— why the Archive?"

I leaned forward slightly, still processing this new turn of events. Damn right, John would want forgiveness for what he wanted to do. That didn't mean that I ever agreed to do what he wanted.

Kirk continued. "All that information is—is public record. If he really wanted to _damage_ Starfleet...this could just be the beginning."

I could tell that Jim had Alex's full and undivided attention; whether that was a good thing or a bad, I didn't know. "The beginning of what, Mr. Kirk?"

"Sir, in the event of an attack, protocol _mandates_ that senior command gather captains and first officers at Starfleet H.Q., right here..." he trailed off slightly. "In _this room_."

Spock began speaking something about warp and jumpships, but my attention was no longer on the meeting, but the curious red glow that had suddenly enveloped the meeting room...

 _And why didn't I stand? Why didn't I run? Or duck? Or fight back? Or even do anything other than look like a deer caught in the headlights?_

 _I don't know._

 _Could I have saved a lot more people if I had done something? Called the defense team sooner? Probably. But my gaze settled on the cockpit of the ship, hoping in vain that it wasn't him. I made eye contact. I saw rage and hatred, remorse and regret..._

 _I see John's face just before he fires. He sees mine. And still fires._

 _And so I lay sprawled out on the glass covered floor, shards digging savagely into my hands as I attempt to crawl to safety._

 _My mind still reeling from the shock of my best friend being a mass-murderer. My legs... nothing seems wrong with them, for once. So I try to crawl out of the line of fire. I look up. I see Spock, and he sees me._

 _And all the sudden a bright green glow reflects off the pale underbelly of my uniform...And of course I know what this means._

 _But then, of course, denial has always been the best weapon of we fools who dream. So let's make believe that I don't see the blinding green light, or feel immense pain erupt across my entire torso, or nearly scream when my uniform starts to smolder and smoke._

 _Let's pretend that my whole lower body doesn't go absolutely limp. But as long as we're doing that, let's pretend that I'm just knocked out by the whole thing, and I don't feel any pain, and don't feel any fear, and am utterly unconscious while Spock drags me away from the violent mayhem._

 _Let's pretend that I don't gasp for air in my last moments as I stare blankly at the ceiling, wondering if, and_ how on earth _this could end up any worse. Let's pretend that my thoughts weren't interrupted by the violating whisperings that I had hoped to only ever hear_ once _in my sorry, pitiful lifetime._

 _Let's pretend that Spock doesn't stick his damned hand on my face for an unwanted mind-meld. Let's pretend that it's not rape. For that matter, let's pretend that I don't hate him with every fiber of my being and fight him at every turn when he_ does _._

 _Imagine that I don't mentally tell him off, with numerous nasty expletives along the way. Imagine that I don't scream at him. Imagine that I don't break down, because I'm_ cold _and it's_ dark _, and it_ hurts _, and_ dammit _, I KNOW what's coming._

 _Let's pretend that everything's all good, and my last thoughts aren't about the fact that I'm leaving my friends to the nonexistent mercies of my best friend (whom I am suddenly growing to hate, by the way). I'm not thinking about the fact that a lot of people have died, and are going to die, pointlessly. But most of all, let's pretend that I'm not haunted by the fact that my baby boy is going to grow up without his papa._

 _But then...We're just pretending. And denial has always been a weapon of we fools who dream._


	22. Epilogue

The small reel on the little wooden table began to play.

 _"Dear Christopher,_

 _"Today I apologize for everything that I have done. I apologize for harming you and your family. You have no idea how much it hurt me to fire into that building, into Daystrom. Please know that your voice prattled on in my mind the whole time about how wrong what I was doing truly was. Yours was the voice of reason, I see now. But it's a bit late for that._

 _"I write to you from my prison cell, at the moment. As much as I would have liked to not be in prison, I know that it is simply my due. I did wrong, and however much I can make excuses about why Marcus deserved it... I did wrong. I see that. I think that it was your young friend, that 'Kirk' who did it. (Although, I still think that he is ignorant. His beating me was unwarranted. You were_ my _friend, too... But I didn't tell him that, because I doubted he would have believed me.)_

 _"I am certain you are seeking an explanation for how you came to be here, listening to this. I was informed that you were put into cryostasis immediately after your death, and I have taken the liberty of locating you, and getting you out before any more damage could be done. I tried to locate your personal belongings that you were carrying that day to return them to you; what I found is in the pack next to your cot, along with a few things that I added to make your travel time more convenient. You will find that the bills for the room have been paid._

 _"This is my final gift to you, for helping both me and my family. I give you your family back, and I hope that you and they have many long years ahead of you, though I would beg that you do not go back to Starfleet. As much as you care for them, I would beg that you simply go back to your family... I and the Augment people thank you for your assistance before. I personally request your forgiveness, and hope you will find it within yourself to indeed forgive me for my transgressions._

 _"I and my people are proud to call you Augment-friend. Respect and Well-Wishes... John."_

A dark grey silhouette slowly drew the little recording device up, and paused it, stuffing into a small rucksack on the table in the small, dark room.

The silhouette's hand absently trailed to his chest, searching out the large, burnt-out hole in the fabric of his uniform, to lightly scratch the clean, pale skin beneath. He slowly hauled the pack up over his shoulder, and opened the door, walking into the dimly lit streets of Underground San Francisco.

A thin wooden cane with a copper handle lay abandoned against the table.


End file.
